


In Exile: Act I, 9:31 Dragon

by Byronical



Series: Faded Echoes [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Author's Universe, Byronic, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, Demons, Dreams, Epic, Expanded lore, F/M, Fantasy, Flashbacks, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kirkwall, Magical Realism, Multiple Perspectives, Multiple Wardens, Novelization, Original Character(s), POV Alternating, POV Multiple, POV Third Person Limited, Retelling, Romance, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Swearing, The Fade, booze, moderate AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2018-08-30 23:22:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 80,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8553733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byronical/pseuds/Byronical
Summary: The Fifth Blight was beaten back by the heroes of Ferelden - King Alistair Therin, Warden Carys Mahariel, and Warden Martin of Highever. With the breaking of the Blight came the breaking of the fellowship - and some who survived wish they hadn't. Martin, warden no longer, finds himself exiled to Kirkwall.Resigned to a fate of obscurity, Martin somehow finds unexpected notoriety in his exile... through a certain woman named Hawke.This is a novelization of Dragon Age II. Expect moderate AU with extrapolation, clarification and some addition to both the story and lore of Dragon Age II in order to better tell its tale.  Changes to the deep lore are minimal, but expect most events to play out differently than they did in game. Martin's origin is unique from any in Origins.Credit to FenxShiral and Project Elvhen for the occasional reference for elvish.





	1. Prologue: To The Road

**Act I, 9:31 Dragon**

**Prologue** **:** **To The Road**

A mirror lay before him, the deep blue of the sea reflecting the lighter hue of the sky above. He could see clouds lazily wafting in reflection as the spray from the ship unsettled the gently rocking waters it cut through. White froth trailed behind, marking their passage.

He heaved, spewing his guts over the side. The foul stuff shattered the mirror for a moment before the spray swallowed it greedily. Martin had never been on a ship before, never felt the rocking waves always casting about - always shaking, never relenting…

 _Is that truly the reason,_ he thought.  _Is that why my stomach will not settle, while sleep never comes…_

He recalled her face – hard, stern, and above all else, proud. Her thin, regal features - high cheekbones… her amber eyes. That mocking gaze that he'd loved. _Still love. Aye._ He remembered that final look, saw the exact moment when it shifted, longing flickering through her eyes for but a moment before they'd steeled then hardened to black. Her form shifted before his eyes until only a raven was left winging its way off that damned tower…

He heaved again, this time only an acrid burning crept up his throat before subsiding.

The burning seemed to settle in his heart, tearing at it. The Blight was over, the archdemon dead with his sword in its foul heart. _The draconic nightmare lay in a pool of its blighted blood, its wings scored with arrows. His throat burned, congested with the fumes of the city burning below and the stench of tainted blood. Carys, her **vallaslin** glistening with sweat, stood beside him. "It's not dead." __Her voice was a hoarse whisper._

 _He shook his head briefly as he felt rather than heard Sten approach from behind, a falter to his step. He had been gored by a stray talon as the beast_ _fell_ _, brought_ _down_ _by a score of Dalish bowmen and Circle mages. It had burned nearly all of them as it landed, slamming into their midst and sending their corpses careening over the side of Fort Drakon. Sten might have died with them, had a Circle mage not staunched his bleeding leg._ _Martin_ _blinked his eyes as the smoke stung at them again, blood now dripping into his vision. He wiped at his brow, felt_ _the gash from where his head had met stone._

 _He turned, searc_ _hed_ _for her. She stood unharmed several steps away, her amber eyes glistening. Like a cats, he thought idly._

 _"Kadan," Sten's voice drew him back to the qunari, the hornless giant steadying himself on his blade, Asala. He gestured pointedly towards Martin's warhammers, now lying on the ground where_ _they had fallen from Martin’s grasp_ _. "Those will not pierce the beast's hide." He lifted his sword, straightening despite his injured leg. He offered the weapon, hilt first. "It is your kill. **Ataash varin kata**."_

 _"You offer me your soul, Sten?" Martin asked through cracked lips._ _Pain pumped through his skull with each word._

_"You have my sword now and forever, as long as the Qun shall allow."_

He felt the sickness rising again, his whole face burning even as the cool ocean breeze stung at it. He couldn’t smell the salt in the air, only the smoke in his mind.

 _Martin hesitated another moment before_ _he grasped_ _the_ _sword_ _. The blue steel blade weighed heavily in his palms as he brought it to bear._

 _"Below the jaw and up into the skull," Carys_ _coughed._ _She was unwounded, but seemed to have as much trouble speaking through the poison in the air as he did. "At least that's what Riordan said."_

 _Riordan._ _The beast had_ _leapt upon him, crushed him under its cruel weight._ _It_ _had recoiled immediately, twin gaping wounds splattering blood where the senior warden had managed to slash through its lighter_ _hide_ _before he died. That_ _had_ _been the beginning of the end._

_The monstrosity moved - vainly attempting to flap its now useless, pockmarked wings. Its legs twitched with no apparent purpose in mind._

_He didn't allow himself to think, merely charged the thing, angling towards its lolling head. He straightened the blade as his feet pounded on the floor. Breath panted into his lungs laboriously, his head spun ever more as he felt his legs begin to fail. He felt the fade rush past, its cool touches easing his muscles enough to finish his charge._

_He leapt, his full weight behind the blade, and drove down into the creatures exposed underjaw._

_The fear he had swallowed that hard battle exploded as he felt Asala penetrate flesh, bone, then something else entirely. His vision darkened as he felt_ _its_ _sheer presence – arrogance - glide up the blade. **Who was he to strike at a god?**_

_His whole world flooded in a sudden, earth shattering anguish. Years uncounting were coming to an end through him._

_The ritual had failed. He and it would end one another. He tried to gasp and realized he could not._

_Sudden light flooded his vision, flinging him back. He felt his head meet stone again._

_That ancient presence tore itself from him, through him, hunger in its presence. An unholy roar filled the air, wind buffeting his aching body._

_Abruptly it ended, the air still and quiet. He felt a pressure on his shoulder and opened his eyes._

_Her amber eyes greeted him, pained. She turned immediately,_ _strode_ _away. He wrenched himself upright, spinning the world again as he saw her shift, body convulsing. He fell back, unable to hold himself up as he heard Carys cry out in alarm._

 _His companions filled his vision as it darkened, kneeling above him. Above them, a_ _raven_ _passed through the smoke above and away out of his view._

His stomach lurched again as the rest of his lunch spilled down the side, this time skidding across the hull. It left a sickly orange stain on the otherwise pristine wood.

Martin pushed himself off the railing, stumbled backwards across the deck. A sailor cursed at him in antivan, but he paid him no mind. He pressed through to the center of the deck, dropped down into the already opened crew quarters below.

He found the sailor he was searching for sprawled across a bench in the crew common area. The shirtless man, skin burned from the sun, lazily met Martin's eyes. "So, you changed your mind, 'ey friend?"

Martin nearly threw the silver on the table, already portioned. The sailor glanced the coins over before scooping them off into his hand. After pocketing the coin the sailor bent over and withdrew a jug from underneath his seat.

Martin grabbed it from him without ceremony and turned to leave.

"Oi, friend. Far be it from me to try to educate a passenger of your means," the sailor said in his harsh bannorn accent. "But you do know that won't help with the seasickness. Far from it, it'll send your stomach into somersaults before wringing your sustenance from ye."

"It'll help," Martin said without turning. He pushed his way through the cramped passageways and back to his cabin, a raven dominating his thoughts. He hoped to drown it.

[=]

Martin woke lying in his tent, the smell of mud and dew all around. Dim dawn light trickled in through the partially opened space to his right. Under him the earth was firm, yet strangely comfortable.

He felt her shifting as he pushed himself up to gaze upon her. Completely naked, no blanket, no scattered garments. She lay on her stomach, her feet in the air.

“Where are we?” He asked in confusion.

She licked at her fingers, one after another, practically purring. “One does wonder. 'Tis the nature of this countryside, to repeat itself on and on so. One would think it would grow tired of such monotony. Alas.”

He stuck his head out the flap. Outside lay a muddy sea of rolling grass, the Frostbacks visible to the west. Their tent sat on the edge of camp, several other tents sitting closer to a makeshift firepit. The sun shone sharply through the overcast sky, rendering the fog and dewy grass painful to look at.

“So, Ferelden.” he mused, ducking back into the tent. “I thought I’d left.”

She wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled herself to him. Her fingers danced impossibly against the naked flesh of his chest. “Forget that which lies beyond. Think of what lays within,” she traced her fingers to his stomach, moved downwards.

Her contact suddenly felt strange on his skin as the white light of morning shifted slightly, adopting an all too familiar… odor. _I know where I am._ It had fooled him, if but for a moment.

“Who are you?” He asked, resigned, pushing her arms away softly and turning towards her.

“Such a question,” she replied, eyes shining. “I am your lady love, am I not? Your desire. The woman of your _dreams_ ,” she said, licking her lips.

“You know nothing of her,” he shot back, his temper flaring. He stood, finding himself completely naked.

“Come, my noble warden,” she cooed playfully, rolling onto her back, presenting herself. “I promise, we shall enjoy ourselves for a _very_ long time. You know from experience.”

His vision reddened as fury threatened to take over. “Don’t play coy, demon. I am in no mood for your games.”

She responded by spreading her legs.

He nearly stepped forward then, whether to attack or… he wasn’t sure.

 _Do not allow_ _it_ _to master you._ Her words. _You have power here._ He closed his eyes, breathed once, twice – willed. Then, he opened them.

She still lay on the ground, still looked like her, but he was in his half-plate, his hammers secured at his hip. The tent too was gone - only the desolate surroundings of the fade remained, the Black City in view behind her. Green, visible wind scattered her hair as she removed her fingers from her mouth and stood.

“Again,” he demanded. “What are you?”

She tisked as she stepped towards him, swaying her hips as her hair moved with the wind. “Who? What? Does it truly matter? 'Tis the object of your desire standing before you, and you would ignore it?”

“You are not her,” his voice nearly broke as he spoke. “And I will not be toyed with. If you are truly desire you know your time is wasted here. You cannot sate me.”

She hummed, stopping before him as he lay his thumbs upon his hammers, unbuckling the straps holding them secure. She nodded. “Perhaps in this form… but I feel a desire within you. Make voice to it.”

He flicked his thumbs over his hammers, feeling the simultaneously hot and cold winds buffeting him. Her eyes lay upon his, searching – they were violet.

They stood, silent, appraising each other for a long moment. Again she spoke to him from memory. _There is knowledge here… ancient magics, forgotten lore. 'Tis fading from our world – someday it might well be gone. Treasure what you may._

Finally, he spoke. “I would know you. Know of you. What led you to me, when did…”

Her eyes narrowed and she barked a laugh. “I am not wisdom, nor do I wish to bare myself for your perusal. Is that truly your only desire, mortal?” She shook her head, her raven hair shaking with the motion. “I can give you pleasures of the flesh, of the heart, and you wish only to know your benefactor?”

He grimaced tightly. _It was a vain hope_. “Then be you gone, Lust. I will not bandy myself to one of your ilk nor try to explain to you what truly matters.”

She eyed his hammers, the hammers he should not have. _She taught me well,_ he thought.

He felt emboldened for a moment, closed his eyes yet again.

“Very well,” she spoke with contempt. “Remain alone with your desire.”

He opened his eyes and she was gone. _She left. Not because he asked, but because he threatened._ He remembered her true eyes, amber. _How did she know?_

He felt his stomach begin tear, wracking with her memory. Her true memory. He closed his eyes again as he felt sorrow push up through his chest and behind his eyes.

When the moisture fell from his face he felt a drop on the top of his head. Then another.

He opened his eyes, found himself gone from the isolated island in the fade, instead standing in a windswept desert. _I’ve never been to a desert._ Water began to fall as thunder roared. It was raining yet the sand remained bone dry.

“Oy, wake up friend! I told ye the drink would not help ye!” He awoke with a start to the sound of a harsh bannorn accent. His skull ached and throbbed as he felt his heart beat in his temples. “We be passing through the chains as I pontificate, and the cap’n advises you spill your guts before we reach port, not after.”

The chain rattled in the door as the crewman pounded. “You hear me in there, friend?”

Martin groaned heavily. “I do,” he sat up, wincing as he did so. His pulse pounded in his temples, his entire brain screaming in protest. _No nausea,_ he thought. _Looks like it worked._ His mind flashed back to the dream. _In part._

“Cap’n expects you above deck directly,” the crewman called, his footsteps padding away down the hall. Martin stood and nearly collapsed as he once again became aware of the deck rising and dipping under his feet. _This is going to be painful._

He pulled on his shirt, throwing on a stiff leather jerkin over top. He left his hammers in the sole chest of his belongings. No demons here, only men.

He opened the door to the smell of piss and vomit – as he pushed his way down the corridor and back up to the main deck he saw a couple crewmen, fresh lashes on their backs scrubbing away at stains on the floor.

He pulled himself out and up and was suddenly hit by the fresh sea air and the sound of calling gulls. He surveyed the deck, the twin masts, eyeing the crew as they moved up and down the rigging. Their voices rang across the deck, yelling in their seaman’s gibberish he doubted he’d ever understand. Mixes and smatterings of half a dozen different tongues, brought together by the sea. The captain stood afore at the prow, shouting orders up and down to his sailors.

Martin stepped over two crewmen relashing some cargo down – evidently loosed sometime during the night. One of them looked up at him, eyes familiar. The bannorn. “Ta friend. Cap’n’s sore, might’ve laid me in if you hadn’t come up direct.”

Martin nodded at him and moved on, clinging to the side of the ship as he looked over. It was a beautiful morning – overcast, but no fog. The heat bearable on the water as they passed by the cliffs surrounding the Bay of Chains.

He could see the source of the name, clear as day. Enormous weathered statues, somehow still bronzed in the salt air leaned against each jagged outcropping of cliffs. He guessed them to be thirty stories high or more, give or take – and each the same. A (relatively) ragged slave, a collar chafing his neck as he grasped at his face in torment. A massive chain of some darker metal connected each by the throat, swinging ever so gently in the air above. Below each another chain, twice the thickness of the suspended one hung low from manacles on their feet and sunk below the waterline.

“A magnificent sight, to be sure,” the captain said in the lilting tone of a marcher as Martin stepped up beside. _Starkhaven._ _Like the sailors in Highever_ , he thought.

The captain was dressed in a fine red silk shirt, dark maroon with studded leather pants beneath. Half dressed, like Martin. “To be sure,” Martin intoned, the words pounding more pain into his head.

“This would’ve been their first sight you know.” The captain spat into the water before continuing. “Those many slaves of tevinter. Thousands upon thousands seeing their fate above carved into the very earth.” He pointed a hand upwards. “A view of the ‘unassailable gates.’ Their will was broken before they entered the city.”

Martin kept his eyes on the statues above. The captain turned away from him for a moment and produced a spy glass from a thong on his belt. He peered ahead, shouting a correction to his watchstander.

The statues loomed above, before and behind as they began to see more ships. The city would be in sight soon.

“How fitting for the Silent Slaves to greet half of Ferelden on the run from the blight. One and all, you refugees end up here. The City of Chains.”

“The Blight is over,” Martin replied, barely able to keep the disinterest out of his tone.

“But you are a refugee of another kind, are you not?” the Captain continued, his eye still down his spyglass. “The Blight is not the only thing that just ended. A Civil War ended as well. Teryn Loghain, Arl Howe… their supporters are in hiding or have fled.”

“Not the Teryn himself as I recall,” Martin mused.

“Not indeed, but the Wardens make their own rules,” the Captain said. He paused, glancing sideways at Martin. “You seem better this morning.”

“Aye.”

Again, another pause.

“You carry a great deal of coin for a refugee. Not many would pay fifty silver for a jug of Monty’s piss liquor.”

Martin glanced at him, suddenly interested in the conversation. He remained silent, waiting for the Captain to speak again.

“Neither could many afford what we were paid to spirit you out of Highever,” the man continued, his eyes still pointed forward. You are in my power. I could find out who you are, find out how much King Alistair would pay to see you returned.”

Martin nodded, idly hooking his thumbs in his belt. “You could.” _Only men._ He nearly laughed.

The Captain finally lowered his spyglass and turned to Martin, a dark flicker in his eye. “Or I could just cut your throat, throw you over the side, and count your coin for meself.”

Martin suddenly no longer cared. “You could,” he shrugged.

The Captain looked him in the eyes, seemingly considering. Martin had the suspicion that the man had decided before they’d even spoken.

The captain shrugged. “Though I’m no pirate. I have a reputation to uphold.”

“As you say,” Martin said.

Martin shook his head slowly. They’d rounded another cliff, another Slave – the great city lay before them, behind the greatest fortress he’d ever seen. Walls taller than the slaves, a single great keep rising from the center. Most impressive of all was that it lay apart from the city, in front of it – separated from it by the bay itself. All along it, spikes crowned the edges – enormous chains hung through every one.

“The Gallows,” the Captain said as he noticed Martin’s interest. “All refugees go through it. The bloody Templar’s seat of power.”

 _Templars? Maker’s sake._ “I assume it’s a Circle?” he asked.

The Captain nodded. “Aye, that it is. And a place of evil repute, so I’m told.”

“Then why are refugees going through it?”

The Captain shrugged. “The Templar’s run Kirkwall. The Viscount likes to pretend he’s in charge, but Maker knows he never defies the Knight-Commander. It is her city, through and through.” He gestured towards its massive spires. “You fereldens have been pouring into the Marches since the Blight – and Kirkwall’s the first stop on a long road. Most end up too poor to leave, and there’s only so much room in the city. Thankfully you lot die off quick enough, so there’s a bit more room to maneuver now.”

The Captain spat again over the side. “So in answer to your question, refugees go through the secured fortress prison with a thousand or more Templars around so they can go whichever way the Knight-Commander wills – into the city or back to the sea.”

They stood together in silence as the oppressive structure loomed ever closer, docks situated at the front becoming visible.

The Captain looked through the spyglass, then back to Martin. “I am right then, refugee. What are ye running from, if I may ask?”

Martin shrugged, considering the Captain’s question with the view before him. “That has no easy answer.”

The Captain looked to him for a moment, then back to the fortress ahead. It wouldn’t be long, if Martin was any judge. “’Into shadow crept and made himself away. North - Minrathous bound.’” The Captain quoted.

Martin turned and headed back down the length of the ship. His things needed to be packed, gold spread beneath the numerous pouches of his pack. As he walked, the clouds above broke and the sun shone down upon them, its heat burning his neck and strengthening his headache.

He made sure to step around the bannorn on his way to the crew deck. “Lovely day, here in this land of our Maker, is it not friend?” he shouted as he secured another knot.

He shook his head wearily and dropped down the hatch as the bannorn laughed.


	2. I: The Gallows

**I: The Gallows**

“Fare thee well, wastrel!” The Captain shouted, now wearing a blue overcoat. He leaned down over the railing, saluting. “May ye live in interesting times!”

The ship turned then, absconding the Captain from view as it slowly sailed out from the Gallows to loop back to the docks. _To deliver cargo, no doubt_.

Not five minutes after he stepped off the ship that had carried him across the Waking Sea it had cast off again. Martin cursed himself that he didn’t think to bribe the Captain into sneaking him directly into the city. Better to deal with one man than with the Templars.

Instead he found himself standing alone on the docks with pack over one shoulder, his hammers tied to his belt. He left his crossbow dismantled in his pack – no use for it here. The fore wall stood before him, portcullis raised – a group of men in half plate loitered around the edges. As he drew closer he saw their armor was uniform with orange padded shoulder guards. _Not Templars, Guardsmen._

As he drew near one of the men approached him. Bald with a hook nose, his face pockmarked. “Look what we have here boys,” he cackled and sniffed at the air dramatically. “Smells like dogshit.”

“Ferelden.” Another guard snickered.

The bald one looked him up and down, his eyes lingering on the hammers. “But not the usual refuse to pour out of that shithole. This one’s got coin. You a political?”

“No,” Martin grunted, shaking his head. “I need to get into the city. Who do I talk to?”

The man laughed cruelly. “’Who do I talk to’ he says.” The man spat, a wad of browned phlegm landing at Martin’s feet. “You talk to us, mongrel. We’re the bloody city guard.”

Two of his mates, a man and a woman, pushed themselves up off their positions and slowly moved up and around Martin to either side. Martin didn’t react. _You look, they smell blood._ He was ready, itching to kill – _but what if I do? I’m trapped in this bloody fort with no way out._

“You got arms. Equipment and the like,” the first guard said, gesturing towards Martin’s pack. “Hand that bag over, and maybe we’ll find you someone to talk to. Otherwise…”

Martin noticed the guards that hadn’t stood had turned away, pretending there was no confrontation before them. _This is common,_ he realized. He suddenly felt a sense of return, as if he’d stumbled not on Kirkwall but on Howe’s Denerim. Odd, that feeling.

“You hear me?” The bald guard snarled, taking another step closer, his hand on the sword at his side. “Hand over the bloody pack. I won’t ask again.”

“No, you won’t.” A woman’s voice from his right. There was strength in that voice, righteous indignation. That and South Reach. _Ferelden_.

“Butt out, sergeant,” the bald guard hissed. “We’re doing our jobs here. Captain Jeven said – “

“You are a guardsman, Arren.” The sergeant said. “You’re meant to question and inspect, not harass fereldens.” Martin turned his head enough to catch her in the corner of his eye. All he could see was bright ginger hair.

“Oh I see,” the woman to his left sneered. “Sarge’s just lookin’ out for her fellow ferelden. Maybe you want more of your kind here, but this isn’t dog country-“

“Not one more word out of you, Mill.” The sergeant interrupted, tone acid. The guardswoman immediately shut her mouth.

“That’s better,” the sergeant continued. “Now you three, get back to the barracks. You’re relieved.”

The third guard spoke. “But-“

“That’s an order, guardsmen.”

The two soldiers flanking Martin turned and headed back through the portcullis immediately. The bald man, however, stood defiant for a moment. “The Captain will hear of your interference, _fe_ _relden_.” He turned to Martin, locking eyes. “And pray that I don’t see you again, mongrel.”

He turned and headed back, through the portcullis and out of sight. The other guardsmen remained in their places as the sergeant stepped up to him, completely in his field of view.

She was a woman of considerable size, nearly six feet, with thick arms and a thicker jaw. No wonder the guardsmen had backed off. She shook her head and muttered. “Idiots.” Then she turned her attention towards Martin.

“Sorry about that. Some of the boys are rougher than they should be. Can’t blame them. Sheep will do as they’re told.”

Martin shrugged. “It worked out. Thanks.”

She nodded. “My job. Speaking of…” She looked Martin up and down, frowning at him. “State your business in Kirkwall.”

 _Exile._ “Looking for work,” he replied instead, shrugging. It was true enough in a way.

She grimaced, disapproving. “Mercenary then? You’ll find plenty of work here. There’s a lot of disorder in this city, and nobles are always looking for a good sword to clean up their corner.” She sighed in frustration. “Should be the guards job, that.”

He shrugged. _I won’t go hungry, at least._ _My gold won’t last more than a month. Less if I need bribes._ “So how do I go about getting in?”

She gestured towards the portcullis. “Lieutenant Gatton’s in charge of new arrivals. His office is off the main courtyard.” She turned and headed through the gate. Martin followed.

The grand entranceway led immediately through a small tiled corridor, dingy and unimpressive. _Probably a choke point, in case the castle gates fall._ He looked up and about, catching sight of murder holes both above and to the sides. _Aye._ _Has to be._

“So, you come directly from Ferelden?” the Sergeant asked.

“Aye,” he replied simply.

“If you don’t mind my asking, were you at Denerim?”

He tensed, for a moment feeling Asala gripped in his hands yet again. “I saw the Blight end, yes.” _Maker please let her leave it there._

She looked at him over her shoulder, measuring him. “Mercenary or not, you did a good thing. I wish I could’ve seen it through myself.”

He ignored her, instead glancing at doorways that began to appear at either side of the corridor – they too held murder holes. _I’d hate to attack this fortress. This is a meat grinder._

The corridor ended abruptly in stairs that widened as the two ascended in silence. Ahead he could see sunlight shining down, casting the shadow of another portcullis down the staircase. They exited into an open courtyard, pillars with more massive slaves flanking either side. _Bronze misery atop stone misery. Still no signs of wear, on the statues at least._ Ahead more staircases rose towards the central spiked keep.

She stopped and headed right towards an alcove, marching in silence. As they reached one of the slave statues, its bronzed agony radiating heat in the sun, she stopped. A simple wooden door stood closed ahead. The Sergeant stepped up to it and knocked loudly before shouting through the murder hole.

“What is it, damn you?” An aged voice barked from within. “If that’s you again Arren, fuck off! I don’t need to tell you a third time.”

“It’s Aveline, Lieutenant,” she sighed. “A trader just brought in a new arrival.”

“Oh. Alright then,” the man shouted. “Wait a moment,” a pause. The door opened and a half naked woman darted out, passed them, turned right and disappeared around a bend.

A man stepped out. He was middle aged, balding – with a short sword strapped to his leggings. His white undershirt was untucked, flowing in the light breeze from the courtyard. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked to Aveline. “That will be all, Sergeant.”

She stood at attention, somehow expressing disapproval through a stoic face. “Sir,” she replied, turning on one heel and marching back down the corridor.

The Lieutenant turned to Martin. “Come on in, I’ll get you situated.” Martin smelled sweat, drink and sex as he entered the man’s office.

“I’m Gatton, if you didn’t know,” the Lieutenant said over his shoulder. He pulled a chair up from the floor and propped it in front of a long, splitbark desk. His office was cramped yet cozy, the harsh stone of its walls covered with black tapestries bearing the orange symbol of Kirkwall. As he sat, Gatton kicked his legs up onto his desk.

Martin sat stiffly.

“So, you looking to enter our fine city?” He lightly tapped his forehead in a ‘that’s obvious’ gesture, twiddling his fingers up in a mock salute afterwards. “So, standing order – find out your business. So – state it.”

“Looking for work,” Martin replied, gesturing to his hammers. “Only way I know how.”

Gatton did the little forehead salute again. “Obvious, but you know, formalities. Ferelden clearly, otherwise that ship of yours wouldn’t have dropped you here.” Gatton had a smooth demeanor, friendliness oozing from him almost sickly. “How long do you plan to say?”

Martin sighed. “Just get on with it. I know how this works.” He growled, exacerbated.

Gatton shrugged amicably. “Hey, Captain’s orders, mate. I’ll just list you as ‘undecided.’”

Martin leaned back in his chair, eyeing the Lieutenant. _A little man,_ he thought. _Flexing his little power. I wonder how he’d feel with his feet clamped between my hammers._

Gatton lifted his hands, placating. “Calm yourself, the worst is over. Now we get on to your entry.” He clapped his hands together. “Right now, you’re stranded in the Gallows, separate from the city proper. Only way across is the ferry – which won’t let you on without the go ahead. Now the ferry’s got the boatswain, the captain, its crew – and then there’s the fine gentlemen of the guard of who I am proud to be their chief representative. All of whom work to facilitate your arrival.” He leaned forward half a foot, bowing awkwardly.

 _Here it is._ “Simply put,” Martin said. “You’re asking for a bribe.”

“It could be called that, yes.” He replied with another casual shrug. “That is the way it has been. Lucky for you the rush is over. Less people want into the city, less cost to those wanting.”

“How much?” Martin stared.

Gatton placed a worn finger down onto the desk and kicked his legs off. He leaned forward in his chair, matching Martin’s stare.

“Twenty sovereigns.”

“Twenty? For Kirkwall?” Martin asked in only partial disbelief. He had expected to get robbed, but not out of more than half his coin.

“Bless the Maker for your fortune that Kirkwall isn’t Val Royeaux,” Gatton mused. “The costs would adjust significantly.”

“You want twenty sovereigns to give me a ferry ticket,” Martin said, voice a near whisper. His hands clenched upon the hammers involuntarily, his knuckles whitening.

“Think of it this way,” the Lieutenant said, measuring each word. “You’re not just buying that ticket. You’re buying the undying friendship of the guard. Well, this guard.” He pointed to himself with his thumbs and grinned, his eyes never leaving Martin’s. “That and any ship that might be willing to take you onward would charge you more’n double that. Double that figure if you want to go anywhere ‘sides Ferelden.”

 _I could kill him,_ Martin thought. His fingers itched to draw hammers then blood. _Break his blade, crush his skull. He could not stop me._

Murder holes sprung to his mind, choke points and Templars and guardsmen… _I cannot kill them all_. He had tried in Denerim – and what had that done? Nearly condemned both himself and Carys to a brutal death in Fort Drakan. He exhaled the breath he hadn’t realized he had held and relaxed his fingers. _I am better than that._

“Well?” Gatton drawled, waiting.

Martin stood and flipped his pack onto his chair, then reached in to flip the hidden pouch at the bottom. One of many places he hid his coin, soon to be empty.

The pouch was heavy in his hands as he spilled it out into his palm, counting out twenty gold sovereigns. Gatton's eyes widened with pleasure, gaze fixated on the coins as they clinked. With the coin counted Martin dropped it on the table.

Gatton hungrily leaned forward and pulled the coin into a drawer in his desk. He produced a key from a pocket and locked the drawer then stood facing Martin. He grabbed a jacket off the floor and gestured with his hand towards the door. “In the spirit of our new-found friendship - and the end of my shift - I'll set you off proper in our fine city.”

Martin stepped towards the door, blocking his exit. “I'll take my ticket first. You aren't just walking out with twenty sovereigns in your desk.”

Gatton tsked. “No trust among friends then. Very well, if it will ease your mind.” He stepped back to his desk, grabbed a sheet of vellum and a pen from within a different drawer and scribbled quickly on it. He handed the 'ticket' to Martin with a flurry.

“Now then, may we proceed?”

Martin considered. _Best I'll probably get._ He stepped out of Gatton’s path. “Lead the way.”

Gatton nodded amicably and led Martin out of his office, locking the door behind them. He began to prattle as he led Martin through the empty courtyard under the shadow of the imposing keep. “Heart of Kirkwall, this is. Genuine tevinter build, all of it – and home of the Templars and our Circle. Most’ll pay lip service to the Viscount, saying Kirkwall’s ruled from his keep, but don’t be fooled. Knight-Commander Meredith holds the reigns and rules from right in here.” He kicked at the base of one of the weeping statues. “This shite’s been standing for a thousand years or more, word is – and I ain’t ever heard of any work done on these things. Magic, I say. Might be the Circle keeps it up, maybe not. Fitting if true.”

Martin tuned him out as they passed through yet another passageway lined with murder holes, this time at the opposite end of the courtyard from Gatton’s office rather than from the front gate. _Is everywhere as fortified as the front?_ The passageways were dark and foreboding.

“And so the Captain put us here, right when you fereldens –“

“This is a Circle, is it not?” Martin interrupted, more to silence the man than anything else. Though he did genuinely wonder. “Where are the mages? Or the Templars for that matter?”

Gatton glanced back at him. “It’s no free day, friend.” He slapped his head in his apparent signature salute of realization. “Ah, my apologies. I forget that Circles are different in other parts.” They descended another set of stairs as Gatton spoke. “When the mages act up, so I’m told, the Knight-Commander puts them in their place. They stay in the keep ‘cept on Free Days. I’ve been here the last two weeks, morning ‘till night, and I only seen them move about maybe three. Free Days.”

Fereldan’s Circle from what he understood had been relatively lax, except for the requirement of most mages to remain at the Tower itself. A Circle, not a prison. It seemed Kirkwall’s Knight-Commander is harder than Greagoir. _With good reason, perhaps._ He remembered abominations, demons – death stalking the halls as the torn Veil brought nightmares to life even as they fought their way ever upwards.

 _But it could be you,_ he thought. _It could be you._ Another voice, her voice. _Fools that allow themselves to be chained. They are not like me. Not like us._

They continued in silence, Gatton’s outpouring of history and trivia apparently cooled by Martin’s question. They passed around a corner, down another set of stairs, up again, through a small courtyard until finally they emerged at what seemed to be the western side of the fortress isle. A small dock looped lazily along the outer walls, a single wooden gangplank connecting the castle itself and the docks right at the single sized gate they passed through. There was a portcullis, but it hung suspended above the small portal.

“Would be closed and guarded, if’n it was a free day,” Gatton explained, evidently noticing Martin’s interest.

Haphazardly tied to the dock sat a small vessel, no more than three dozen paces long and one dozen across. Its wood was battered and greened, a sharp contrast to the spotless trader that had deposited Martin at the Gallows not half an hour before. Upon its single mast a mottled grey sail fluttered below yet another flag that bore the draconic etchings of Kirkwall. Half a dozen portholes lined the lower deck facing them.

Gatton effortlessly, even excitably bounded over the rickety gangplank and onto the dock below. Martin followed hesitantly, feeling the wood shift under his weight as he stepped across. _Apparently few leave the Gallows this way – or at all,_ he mused.

They made for the ship, Gatton continuously sure in step while Martin measured each with care. More than one plank shifted as the gangplank, threatening to throw him into the waters below. _Even this dock does not want me._

As they finally stepped alongside the ship several crewmen bungled into sight, presumably from below decks. One man with a particularly lopsided face only partially hidden by a woolen cap called down. “Oi, Gatton!” His was crackly and slurred. “You’re early. If you’re looking for Linde-“

“No, no,” Gatton called, waving his hand dismissively. “I am not. I in fact wish to return to the city with my companion.”

“But Gatton,” the man swooned, eyes widening. “She says you ain’t had your full hour yet and can make it up – “

“Hush Simon,” Gatton interjected. “And you’ll get that what’s left. We have more important business.” He gestured to Martin with a flourish. “We have a productive new citizen-“ he glanced to Martin with the word. “That requires transport to his newfound home.”

A second sailor waddled over beside Simon, his dark pate nearly concealing his broken nose. “Productive, you say?” He shouted, causing Simon to visibly recoil. “Does that mean – “

“Yes, yes!” Gatton bellowed, still boisterous. “Drinks are on him this night! Prepare him the luxury accommodations!”

Several other sailors appeared, whooping and cheering. “Three cheers for the stranger!” the broken nose sailor roared. The men beside cheered with abandon as two made their way to the side and threw down a net ladder. The boat was still three or four paces from the dock.

Without hesitation Gatton leapt from the dock, hitting the hull lightly and grabbing hold of the ladder. He turned his head towards Martin. “Follow me!” He then scrambled up and over the top, on to the ship.

Martin blinked. He’d only been on boats maybe a dozen times in his life, to sea only once - but even then he was sure this was unusual. _Is it not?_ He looked down into the dark, churning bay.

“It’s but a leap, Martin!” Gatton called, leaning over the side of the ship. Only one other sailor stood beside him, the one with a broken nose.

“Scrape and crow, here and though!” The broken nose sailor slurred absurdly.

Martin took in a breath and decided. He leapt.

He smashed his gloved hands into the hull of the vessel as the bridge swayed with his momentum. Cursing, he decidedly kept his eyes up and scrambled with numbed fingers over the top.

Gatton grabbed Martin’s back and pulled him the last of the ways over. Without pause he took Martin’s arm and led him to starboard. “Behold!” He shouted, flourishing his arm dramatically. “Your accommodations!”

Sat up beside the rail stood a stool, padded with a battered and browned cushion. As Gatton flourished, a sailor hastily dropped another stool in place beside.

Martin sat, without thinking. He had stopped questioning, and just went along.

“Ey lads!” Gatton bellowed in a fiery voice. “Man the oars and take us to the city! Lowtown, if you please.”

“Aye,” they shouted as one.

“Where the piss and ale flow in equal measure!” A voice shouted from below decks. The sailors burst out into fits of laughing as they busied themselves with their work.

Gatton slid into his stool beside Martin, still smiling amiably. “And when we get there, sir, I’ll show you the sights! East Wharf, Harlot Alley, but most of all your new home. The Hanged Man! Shittiest den of inequity in the city, but it’s the place to be for a sellsword like you.”

The deck shuddered and shifted underneath them as the oars met water. They began to rock and sway. Martin heaved at the sudden motion while Gatton laughed.

  



	3. II: Company

**II: Company**

Sitting on her stool and nursing her third drink, Nell Hawke found herself totally and unequivocally _bored_. _Maker, I have no friends,_ she realized abruptly.

She had family, of course. Up to her ears. There was mother, but she was _definitely_ not a candidate for a trip down to the tavern. Uncle Gamlen – out. Carver, though more often than not surly at something unimportant hadn’t been home when she’d looked for him. _Probably off to the Blooming Rose,_ she thought. _As amusing as it would be to pop in on him there, it’s probably best for everyone that I don’t. Ever._

Varric was her friend now she guessed but apparently the dwarf wasn’t in at the moment. _A pity, that chest hair would’ve been great company alone._ _Maker, when did I become so lightweight?_

The bartender Corff had mentioned that a pirate had been in a few nights ago, a real killer woman he’d said. Even started a full brawl. _I wish I’d been here. Well, less for the brawl and more for the pirate._ Though now she’d welcome a brawl what with her only companion being sweat flavored ale.

Corff moved in front of her and leaned heavily against the bar, breathing heavily. _Probably sampling his own brew._ “’Ave you heard? The strangest thing. My friend in West Hills says the pigeon population is way down. They find groups of them, pulverized. What kind of sick individual goes after harmless creatures like that?”

“Why I wouldn’t know,” she deadpanned, scooping up her drink and stepping away from the bar. She turned and surveyed the room, praying for someone to save her from another evening of Corff’s endless prattling and clumsy come-ons.

The Hanged Man was surprisingly unattended this night, one table taken by a handful of street thugs she recognized and a few street walkers she didn’t spread about other tables. No one pleasant, or even interesting.

Then her eyes caught a man seated in the far back of the room – dressed for bear, half plate covering a sinewy muscled form. She’d never seen him before. _A mercenary, clearly._ She made for him, noting as she approached that he was at least moderately attractive – short dark hair with just enough scruff to be appealing. As she got closer she realized her error. The moderately attractive face she’d seen from a distance was marred with heavy scars, most notably one that ran over and around his eye then back down towards his lip. Under that veneer and an unkempt short beard was the face of a man at least not older than she.

He didn’t move as she pulled up a chair across from him, merely eyed her. She noted twin warhammers, one hung from each side of his waist, strapped down with a thong around the thigh. “Hello,” she said, as she lifted her drink. _He has hard, weary eyes._

“Hello,” he replied in a low voice, ignoring his drink.

“What are you doing all the way back here?” She asked, grinning and taking another sip of her drink.

“Drinking,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

She glanced pointedly at the ignored mug that sat before him. The man sighed, reached forward, grasped it and took a long drag.

She smiled. “That’s more like it.” She stuck out her hand, nearly knocking the mug off the table. _Get a grip on yourself, girl._ “My name’s Nell. Nell Hawke. I’m bored to tears.”

He looked at her hand a moment as if unsure what to do with it before grasping it for half a second. He opened his mouth to reply.

“Wait,” she said, holding up one finger. “Don’t tell me. Let me guess.” She looked him up and down, emphasizing her eyes raking him. “I’ve got it.” She snapped a finger. “Your name is Josiah du Chatillon. You’re an Antivan spice merchant who happens to run the greatest sellsword band in all of Thedas, the Magnanimous Twelve. You’re here in Kirkwall to escape your dreaded fanbase, and now you feel absolute terror as I’ve revealed your secret.” She grinned. “Do I have you right?”

He crooked an eyebrow, a slight smile breaking out on his rugged face. “du Chatillon is an Orlesian name.” His accent sounded ferelden, though she couldn’t place the dialect. _Far from Lothering definitely._

“Yes, you’re an Orlesian who lived in Denerim but claims citizenship of Antiva for tax purposes,” she chortled, taking another sip of her drink. It seemed to taste better somehow, like somewhat less ripe sweat.

He snorted. “You have got an imagination.”

She laughed. “Don’t ever learn to read. It ruins you that way.”

“Oh, I know,” this time he laughed in kind, if quietly. His eyes seemed to soften, and his shoulders relaxed some.

“Shall I guess about you, now?” he offered, voice warm though still soft.

She liked where this was going. “But of course, you have an advantage.”

He inclined his head. “Of course.” He looked her straight in the eye. “Your name is Nell Hawke. You’re a refugee from southern Ferelden, maybe near the Bannorn. You fled the Blight like so many others and made for Kirkwall, only to find out that the Blight ended almost as soon as it started. Now you frequent criminal dens in order to find work, sometimes company, and you are either starting to feel your alcohol or you might just be the friendliest woman in Lowtown.”

_What?_ She could hardly keep her head from jerking back in surprise. “You must have some wicked mind reading magic to know that.”

“So I’m right?” He asked pointedly, again ignoring his drink.

She nodded. “Near exactly. How’d you tell?”

“Your accent shows you ferelden, and you’re far too comfortable in this place to be a new arrival,” he gestured, pointing under the table. “You aren’t going so far as to wear full armor, but you’re wearing deceptively strong leather leggings and jacket. You also have at least two knives on your person, strapped to your boot and I believe in your bodice.”

She glared at him indignantly. “You looked down my shirt.”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “You practically threw the view at me as you sat down.”

She thought back, realized she had, and reddened. _Maker he’s right, and I’m making an ass of myself._ “Well, this is going swimmingly,” she lamented, throwing her hand to her brow dramatically. “Will you continue to wound me with your words, or shall I fall upon my bodice-dagger myself?”

He full on chuckled now. “I think we can dispense with either.” Still his voice remained low, and still she could hear him clearly. Something about it cut through the cacophony of the rowdy street thugs, commanding attention.

She sat back, reached for her drink, then thought better of it. For his part, he took another large swig of his.

“I think we shall declare this contest null and void,” she said, adopting a tone of mock severity.

“It was a contest now?” he asked, finally downing his drink in absolute as he finished his sentence.

“You had an unfair advantage. My boot knife, my bodice and my name. You are a poor sport, _Serrah_ , a poor sport.”

He chortled again. “Alright, _my lady_. I shall give you another chance. You have my plate, my hammers, and my name – Martin. Now you may guess again.”

“Just Martin?”

He sighed, some of his mirth disappearing. “Martin of Highever.”

_Highever? Northern, then._ She sized him up, this time actually looking. Many if not all of the scars on his face were relatively recent, some even still harsh red. His hammers were clean, but chipped with use, and his armor was battered even heavier than his hammers. Still, they were clearly quality. Better than the iron garbage Athenril had provided her what had seemed an age ago. _Maker, he’s not just as old as me, he’s younger than me by at least two years. I’d stake my life on it._

She stroked her chin. “You are Martin, of Highever. You were a soldier who fought in Ferelden during the Blight, and now the Darkspawn are defeated you’ve come to Kirkwall to find your fortune. Pretty poor decision, I might add. In my experience, there are no fortunes in Kirkwall.” She grimaced. “Even those you’re supposed to have.”

“Less specific than my answer,” he nodded sagely. “But nearly as correct. I was a soldier who fought the Blight, and now I’m in this pisshole of a tavern looking for work.” He pounded his cup once on the table, looking over her shoulder. She turned to see Nora striding to answer his pound. She spilled half the ale on the table and half into his mug without even breaking her stride. “Not earnestly, you can tell.”

“Tell me,” she said in mock (and she had to admit to herself, somewhat actual) admiration. “How did you get Nora to serve you with such little fuss? She won’t pour me a glass without at least three coppers.”

He shrugged. “I paid in advance.”

Nell frowned. “You disappoint me, Martin of Highever. I had thought you commanded some otherworldly force for a moment.”

He sighed deeply, frowning. “Just Martin.”

“Alright, now _just_ Martin. I can _just_ take a hint, or a fireworks display in this case.”

They sat together in silence for a time, he suddenly melancholy and she unsure of what to say. She found herself desperate to fill the silence, when an idea hit her.

“If you fought the Blight, were you at Ostagar?’

He looked at her, a strange expression on his face. “Aye, I was.”

She nodded. “As was I.” She turned before she could see his face react, shouting to Nora. “Another round here, Nora!” She reached down into her money purse as Nora strode up as belligerently as ever.

“Drink’s on me,” Martin said. She looked to him and saw that strange look still unchanged.

He ignored Nora as she poured, looking steadily at Nell. “Where were you?”

“King Cailan’s left flank,” she replied, taking a large gulp of her drink.

“I didn’t think anyone in the King’s host made it out alive,” he admitted, his voice contemplative.

“Only six of us did,” she said. “My brother and I, two.”

He nodded understandingly. “Looking back, I didn’t have much time to think on it. We were overrun before you were.”

She cocked her head. “And where were you?”

This time he drank. A long, hefty drag. “The Tower. The signal went up, and we nearly died.”

She almost asked him how he survived. The question, _how did you escape that damnable tower to join me now in this shithole so far from home_ nearly left her lips. But then she realized what the trade would involve. She took another gulp over her drink to try to drown the thought of that hell again. Drown the cries of men all around, blood, the pure terror that was the Darkspawn. Desperate eyes looking to her, pleading. That horrible, terrible responsibility.

“So,” she said, forcing a grin onto her face. “Here we are, both alive and far from the Blight.” _Da always said, ‘smile enough and the frown forgets itself.’_ _Proved it true to. He’d hit his face into a pie. Mother tried to be angry, but that beam on his face as bits of meat and crust dripped off made it forget._ Her façade smile found itself cracked by a good one.

“Both looking for work,” he smiled.

“And company,” she offered, grin expanding. _Oh Maker, Nell._

“Work for me,” he said, smile fading. He stared at his mug for a moment before looking to her. “Not that this company is unwelcome.”

They sat in uncomfortable silence for another moment. _Keep it going._ “Have any luck? With work, I mean.” Nell asked.

He shrugged. “I’ve only been here a week thus far. Some highwaymen tried to hire me, but I’m not poor enough to stomach pure robbery yet. You?”

“As a matter of fact,” she said, beaming. “My brother and I are working with a curiously beardless dwarf to help fund an expedition into the Deep Roads.”

“Oh?” He asked. The strange look from earlier returned, a sort of sudden alertness. “That sort of thing seems more fit for Hightown than for The Hanged Man. That is, if you’re looking for funding.”

“More like working for it,” Nell said with a half-smile, half grimace. “We're buying in as partners. Apparently the brother of our dwarven friend has a juicy lead in the Deep Roads but can't afford the expedition to get there.”

“Are you sure you want to tell me this?” he asked, his eyes furrowing over the strange look. “What if I buy in before you?”

She grinned, looking him up and down. “No offense, but I don't think you can afford it.”

He looked down at his gear. “Probably not,” he answered, shrugging. “Still not something you tell someone you just sat down to drink with. You seem like a smart woman, why tell me?”

_I don't know, because I'm drunk? No,_ she realized. _That's not why._

“I've been here in Kirkwall over a year now,” she confessed, her eyes in her mug. “You're the first ferelden I've met here who hasn't begged for coin or tried to stab me in the gut.”

“Though I’ve only been here a short while,” he said, drinking again from his mug. His eyes lost that strange quality to them, sinking back into a sort of calm. “That’s been my experience as well.”

They sat in silence for a moment, mulling. Nell wanted to say something, anything, but couldn’t find the words. _Work? Ostagar? Shite conversation that._ She tried to hide the thoughts flickering across her face by tilting the mug up for another swig. She found herself strangely enjoying the quiet man’s odd temperament, and didn’t want to leave. _What to say…_ _Wait. Work! That’s it!_

“Would you like to join in?” She asked, suddenly, clattering the mug she’d been hiding behind on the table. “The expedition I mean. Not many around here can say they’ve fought darkspawn.”

He looked at her, tilting his head slightly. “You mean buy in? It doesn’t sound too promising. Deep Roads are hell, and what’s easy to get to isn’t oft worth much.”

“No, no.” She shook her head. “Nothing like that. I mean, help us raise the coin – we’re getting it mostly through work that Varric puts to us.”

“Varric? Us?”

“Oh,” she slapped herself on the head. “Sometimes it seems everyone in the city knows who we are, though I can’t imagine why. Varric’s our beardless friend from the Merchant’s Guild. He, my brother Carver and I are working together to raise the coin.”

He looked her in the eyes a long moment. As much as she liked him, _though Maker knows how much of that is just because he’s ferelden_ , she still found the gaze… withering. Searching and pained. _I’d look like that,_ she realized, _if I didn’t try so hard not to._

“So you are proposing I join your makeshift sellsword band with Merchant’s Guild – “

“Oh no! Nothing like that. It’s just Varric. He seems to know everything, but he’s the younger brother. Not representing the Guild, I mean.”

He sighed, continuing. “However directly or indirectly, to take whatever sort of odd jobs you can find to raise an unmentioned exorbitant sum in order to take a suicidal trek through the Deep Roads.”

She shrugged. “Try being poor in Kirkwall. That’s suicidal.”

He sat silent, watching, his eyes searching hers.

She spoke more to fill the silence and to distract herself from those probing gray eyes than anything else. “Of course you’ll get an equal share of each job, and if you come along on the expedition I’ll give you a percentage of our profits.” _Carver is going to be livid – but he was the one who said we needed to take opportunities. Besides, maybe he won’t –_

“Alright,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I cannot say as to the expedition, but for its funding you’ve hired yourself a... sellsword.”

Nell took up her mug, saluted, drank it all down. _If we avoid the wrong topics, this night won’t be half as bad as I thought’d be. Stimulating,_ she grimaced briefly. _But not_ _stimulating_ _. Ah well, the Maker tosses the knuckles only when Andraste sings, as Da used to say._

“So what do you think of Nora? As a man or as not, either way. She’s a miserable git, I think. Mostly.”

“…Is that a woman’s thoughts of Nora?”

“I think my thoughts on her are _transcendental_.”


	4. III: Cohesion, or a Redhead

**III: Cohesion, Or A Redhead**

He wrapped his arms around her, pinning her to the floor beneath him as he rolled over. She wriggled, giggling, stirring up straw that caused his nose to itch. _Not all she’s stirring up._

“Carver…” she moaned, a smile painted across her face. She had beautiful, full red lips that coupled nicely with her flaming red hair. Several strands of it threaded into a braid that dangled just perfectly over one eye. “Is this how you treat a Sister of the Maker?”

_Maker, her accent._ “Do not trouble yourself lady,” he husked throatily, reaching up her chantry skirt and feeling at what lay within. “I know how to treat a woman.” He pinned her arms above her head with his free hand. She giggled in response.

“You’re so big… and strong,” she cooed, pressing herself closer to him. “I would give my first to you. Take me.”

_With pleasure,_ he thought, flipping the skirt over and exposing her smallclothes. He began to salivate, his other hand still holding her hands above her head. He’d dreamed of this moment for years. It took all his will to keep his hand steady as it inched towards his prize.

He looked to her face, wanting to gauge her reaction. Instead of the bliss that painted it a moment before now was blankness set in stone. “Someone’s at the door,” she said banally.

“No there isn’t-“ he objected before he heard the knock himself. He looked up to see the slide door banging against the bar. It escalated into a hammering as it rocked the walls, straw absurdly falling from above and raining over him.

He opened his eyes to find himself in his small cot in Gamlen’s house. _Maferath’s balls_. He pushed himself to his feet, suddenly aware of how parched his throat was. _Shouldn’t have drunk that last round with Milly at the Rose. Not bloody worth it._ He tilted his head experimentally. _Least my head’s alright._

The light of noonday sun shone through the small window in his room, uncomfortably but not painfully overbright. He stretched and felt the stiff bones at the small of his back crack pleasantly.

Another pounding from the door two rooms away. _Thought that was the dream._ _Where the bloody hell is Gamlen when you need him?_ He glanced over, noticing the old man’s cot was unmade and dirty. _Probably off gambling away our money again._ He looked to his money purse on the nightstand, reached out and weighed it in his palm. _Feels right. Still, can’t be too careful with that bastard around._

Another set of pounding from the door. He sighed, shouting through his hoarseness, “I’m coming.” _Calm your bloody muffs._

He picked his way to the door, stepping over a series of rat traps set at the front of his room. _Why isn’t mother answering the door? Probably off to market._ Feeling safe after passing the traps he continued unconcerned through the parlor. That is, until he felt something squish unpleasantly under his foot.

Carver looked down, lifted his bare foot and grimaced. Sticky, green spattled ooze clung to him with flecks of a hard, darker crust that he’d shattered with his sole. He kicked the floor angrily, grunting in pain as his naked heel caught a loose nail and cut him. _Gamlen. I’m going to ring the lecher’s neck._ He half walked, half hopped back to his room and wiped his foot thoroughly in Gamlen’s sheets.

He managed to reach the door finally, cursing as he stumbled on one of Gamlen’s heavy boots that the idiot had kicked into the middle of the windowless entryway. Carver peered through a crack in the door, just to be safe _. A man in half plate. Not a Templar._ He released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and opened the door.

“What do you want?” He asked in irritation. “Who are you?”

The man looked him up and down, measuring him. He was shorter than Carver, lean yet muscled, his thumbs hooked into his belt. Two hammers were strapped to his waist and secured at the thigh. Carver felt strangely exposed without his greatsword.

After a moment of stares between them the man spoke. “Is this the Hawke household?” His voice was quiet and level.

_Shite. This better not be one of Athenril’s boys._ “Yeah, I’m one. What of it?” He squinted up at the sun, gauging the time. The man stood silent for another moment. “Who are you, and what do you bloody want?” Carver was losing his patience. _If I get back quick enough, maybe I can get back to that dream…_

The man didn’t move at first. Then he nodded. “You must be Carver. I’m Martin. Your sister hired me, last night. Is she awake?” He spoke slowly, with short pauses between each sentence.

Carver sneered. “Of course. Leave her alone for one minute and she’s picking up strays.” He looked the man over, just noticing how worn his armor was. _Clean though._ _Professional_ _soldier, right. Ferelden too. What do I care? Half of Darktown’s ferelden and I don’t give a proper shit about them._

_I should send him off._ “I’ll check if she’s awake,” he said instead, sullen. _Always at her beck and call. Answer the door, carry the grub, skewer the bandit. One day…_ he thought as he began to shut the door.

Martin stuck his arm forward in a flash, catching the door and holding it in place. “Is this hospitality here in Kirkwall?” He said, his voice maintaining the same soft timbre. “Am I to wait out here?”

Carver pulled the door back from Martin’s hand. “I said I’ll check. Now shove off the door and wait.”

Martin’s arm lowered, and the door slammed. Carver saw the man through the crack, tightening his knuckles into fists. _Tough shit._

Carver walked over to the girls’ room, this time carefully checking each step for detritus. He made it safely and cracked the door to see Nell stretched out on her straw cot, fully clothed.

Pushing his way inside, he stepped over to her. “Nell,” he pushed her shoulder. “Sister.” He shook her. She moaned slightly and turned over. _I tried_.

He stepped back and out of her room, stopping by his room for his sword before he ambled back to the front door. He cracked it open, keeping his blade out of sight. “She’s asleep. Come back later.”

“How much later?” the man asked, his hands again on his belt.

“How the bloody hell should I know?” Carver spat, slamming and bolting the door. He stood at the ready, waited. Martin tsked once, kicked lightly at the stoop. Then he turned and made his way up the street.

Carver marched back to his room, cursing as he stepped into the remains of the cheese yet again. He tossed his sword down and leapt into bed, letting his feet hang off. He snaked his arm forward, grabbed his pillow, then pulled it over his head.

He tried his hardest to picture a comely red-haired Sister, begging and inviting - but his imagination refused to cooperate. A scarred mercenary popped up instead, his thumbs still hooked in his belt.

“Damn it all,” Carver shouted, tossing the pillow and pushing himself up. He walked quickly back out into the hall and over to the water barrel. Mother was good enough to always have water drawn for it, so all he had to do was take the bowl sitting atop it and fill it quickly from the nozzle. Then he carefully moved his way back into Nell’s room.

She’d had a bender last night, that was for sure. Her face was buried in her pillow, her legs and arms thrown about haphazardly. He could still smell the stench of Lowtown swill as it radiated from her sleeping form. Without hesitation he dumped the water on her head.

Nell spluttered and flailed, rolling as she grabbed her neck where the offending liquid had splashed. In her confusion she rolled off the bed and onto the floor, landing hard on her rear with a satisfying thump.

She looked up at Carver, squinted in pain and lifted a hand to cover her eyes. “Good morning, Carver,” she whispered.

“’Good morning,’ she says,” Carver repeated loudly. She winced. “As if there’s anything good about it. Do you know who just came to our doorstep?”

“The city guard?” She mumbled, closing her eyes again. “Come to tell us that poor Uncle Gamlen has finally left this terrible world to join the embrace of the Maker?”

“Some bloody ferelden with a set of hammers. Asked for you.” He grimaced. “What have you gotten us into now, sister?”

“Oh,” she muttered. “He's not ferelden. That's just for tax purposes.”

“What?”

“Skip it,” she rubbed her chin with her free hand. “I hired him. He's in for a share in our pay, and he might come on the expedition with us.”

_Nell… I'm going to bloody punch you if this keeps up._ “I figured. I'm glad you signed on a total stranger without telling me. I mean, there's Varric of course, but I'm actually looking forward to who comes next. A city guardsmen? A bloody templar?”

“There's always Aveline,” Nell reminded him. As he blanched in fury she quickly waved her free hand dismissively. “Calm your tits brother,” she said. She lowered her shielding hand and pushed herself up, sitting and leaning against the bed frame. “She was at Ostagar. So was he.”

“So?! Half of bloody ferelden was there!” Carver shouted, and this time she shut her eyes in pain and turned away. “That’s no reason to hire him, straight up, while you’re so shit-pissed you can’t get up before noon next day!”

She sighed, rubbing her temples. Her eyes remained scrunched up. “If I have to explain it to you Carver, then you won't understand.” Her voice was exacerbated, tone not unlike a mother to an unruly child.

He threw his hands up in frustration. “Fine. Ignore me. Let's just let everybody into our little mercenary band until we've got the templars down our throats.” He turned and strode out, heading for the front door.

Kicking on his shoes, he turned as the sun hit him in the face. “And when I die defending you and mother dies of mourning you it will be all your fault!” He slammed the door, feeling a fleeting sense of satisfaction from the impact. _Maker, I need a drink. Or a redhead._

  


[=]

  


_Well, shit._

Varric looked down at his boot, lifting his foot in one hand to check the underside. _Wonderful. Seems a horse is never in sight and I’m stepping in one’s shit._

He looked around the Lowtown market, sniffing the air as he repeatedly kicked his boot onto the cracked street below. He’d been stepping in shit pretty heavily lately, first with that damn duster who’d sold Bartrand on the idea of a Deep Roads expedition, then Wicked Grace with Gorr that’d cost him three sovereigns, and now Magistrate Vanard.

Varric had never had much money to kick around – Bartrand controlled House Tethras’ holdings (such as they were) while the only couple of stories he’d managed to serialize were quickly converted to drink and fun. What little he’d had left had been, as Varric thought of it, shared with his “friends.” That is, his contacts. People whose help he or Bartrand might need at some point, people Bartrand was too mule-headed to see the value in cultivating a… “friendship” with. People who with a whisper could secure the brothers a favorable business venture, protect them from a rival house, or even tell a good story for Varric’s next book. He had found over the years that coin did more to keep them friendly than anything else in the world. _Other than my winning smile._

Athenril, the only major non-Carta smuggling operator in Kirkwall, was one of these contacts. When he’d needed partners for Bartrand’s expedition, she’d been one of the first he’d turned to. Maker knew, none of his actual friends could help out. Not that he had many. Once asked, Athenril was the only truly helpful “friend,” letting him know that the siblings Hawke were just what he was looking for. Fit together nicely when he’d found them failing to convince Bartrand to hire them on.

Now another “friend” had stepped up. Varric had been probing them for work, seeing if there was anything Hawke and he could handle. Most hadn’t bit his subtle bait, but Magister Vanard had.

And Varric wish’d he hadn’t. The nug humper hadn’t just given them a job, oh no, he’d insisted. _And Maker knows, when a Magistrate is hiring mercenaries to capture a prisoner all while threatening their poor dwarf agent with hanging if it’s not handled quietly – well, he’s stepped in shit._

And so he had, and had again. He looked down at his boot again. _Shit. Just spread it around. Made it worse._ He sighed heavily, resigned. _Guess I’ll clean it later._

He set his foot down and stepped from the alcove he stood in, moving past the cluttered stalls and the shouting merchants. People of all types surrounded him – humans, elves, dwarves - all bustling through the throng intent on their own purposes. _Their own lives. Their own stories._ Varied as the whole of Kirkwall, except the state of their clothes. Nearly all were dressed in dull tunics, robes, even rags – only a handful he saw had any sort of color to their wear. This was Lowtown, not Hightown. _No nobles here. Just the way I like it._

As he pushed through the pack he began to focus more on those he passed, telling himself a little story about the more interesting faces.

Bearded man, faded yellow tunic and cloth cap. _Olfrid Edlesberg of Tevinter. Famed assassin, cutthroat and killer – aren’t those three words for the same thing? In Kirkwall to kill famed guardsman Ulain the Incorruptible. Each braid in his beard stands for five completed kills. No, too small. Ten._

A young woman, blonde hair marred by dirt, a thin browned shawl covering her thin frame. _Shunned daughter of a noble house, cast to the streets to beg by jealous relatives. She only need wait till the son of the Viscount finds her and falls in love, when she then reveals her noble blood. A true fairy tale._

“Oi, what you looking at shorty?” A bald human, grey bearded goatee slumping from his withered face. Varric ignored him and continued. _The local drunk, Pissbreath, who’ll be killed by Olfrid Edlesberg for interrupting his meal. Sounds about right._

He abruptly found himself outside the crowd, now making his way down an empty narrow street. More refuse cluttered the edges than the market square, dark stains marking the street below every window in the decrepit homes lining each side. Near the end of the alley the markings were considerably duller, as if someone had taken a scrubbing brush to them. He looked up, seeing the ramshackle home that was the Hawke residence. And it certainly was the Hawke residence now. _Maker knows, dear Uncle Gamlen didn’t clean that street._

He stepped up the newly repaired stoop and reached up towards the still stained doorway. Apparently even the dedicated brusher hadn’t been able to shine that mark yet. He rapped three times.

Silence.

He stood for a moment, knocked again. Again, silence. Varric tilted his head, looking to the sun. _Well past midday._ He reached his hand up to the door again, only to hear a crash and what sounded like a curse from inside.

He stood and waited for a moment, a continued stream of muffled cursing wafting through the door. _A woman._

It grew louder and more intelligible as the speaker lumbered towards the door with heavy footsteps. “Pox on the whoresons and damn any bastard who – “

The cursing stopped immediately as he heard the latch lower. The door swung inwards, and Nell Hawke poked her head out the widened crack. Her short hair was disheveled, her eyes bleary and blinking. She looked comically confused for a moment before her beleaguered gaze shifted downwards to settle on Varric.

“Good morning, Hawke,” he said, unable to keep a grin from his face. _I know a hangover when I see one, and this one is_ _ **mean**_ _._ “Sleep well, go to bed early?”

She clenched her eyes closed, turning her head back in obvious pain. She raised her hands to her forehead, massaging gently. “Shit,” she muttered.

“That wasn’t what I was going to say,” Varric drawled, “but if the shoe fits…”

“Oh, _cock_ ,” she groaned. “We were supposed to meet.”

“Two hours ago, actually,” he said. “I drank five tankards waiting for you. Was this some devious scheme to get me drunk? I say no, Hawke, no. You won’t get to see me with a lampshade on my head so easily, mark my words.”

“You can call me Nell, Varric,” she sighed as she opened the door wider.

He stepped past her and into the house, careful with his steps. As much as Leandra tried, the house always seemed a disaster area when he came. _Gamlen, no doubt. Or maybe Junior._

“And I could call Junior ‘Carver.’ There’s no truth in names, Hawke. I like the names I give better.”

“Funny,” she said as she lurched over to the dining table near the rear of the hardly lit room. “I could of sworn it was da who gave me Hawke.”

“And who called you it before me? Nobody, that’s who.” He pulled up a chair across from her, leaping into it with practice ease. “When I look at people, I see past their names. With just a glance, I can get a sense of who you are. Then I call you it.”

“But my name is actually Hawke,” she protested, leaning her elbows on to the table and continuing to massage her forehead. “It’s not some deep philosophy of my soul or something.”

“And what does that say about you?” Varric chided, bemused.

She sighed and dropped her hands. “Maker’s breath, Varric. I’m hung over. I don’t have it in me to argue this trite.”

Varric chuckled. “It’s hardly trite, but fine. To business, then?”

She nodded. “Any luck?”

He sighed. “Unfortunately, yes.”

She dropped her hands – and her head – down onto the table with a thump. She groaned, her voice muffled in her arms. “I’m just tickled to hear that. What’s the problem?”

“Well,” Varric said carefully. “As an ex-smuggler, I’m sure you’re aware of the Magistrates here in Kirkwall.”

“Only that half or more are paid off,” she grumbled. “And the other half's whipped by threats and the like.”

Varric shrugged, flicking some of the fine dirt from the street off his jacket. “This one's the former. Magistrate Vanard. Wants us to bring in a criminal. Alive.”

Hawke looked up. “What's so bad about that? Legitimate bounty means we're on the guard's side, for once. If it's difficult, I'm sure Aveline would -”

He cut her off with a shake of his head. “It's not legitimate, as far as it seems. Fact is, he wouldn't give me any info on the guy we're supposed to hunt. No name, no crime, only the location. That and the fact we need to keep this completely under wraps.”

“Well sod that,” Hawke replied. “Problem solved. Anything else?”

Varric averted his eyes. _Here we go._

She stared at him, apprehension splitting across her face. “What? What's wrong?”

He met her gaze. “Well, I may have mentioned your name a few times while talking to my… contacts. You've got a certain reputation with that sort of people, thought it might help us out.”

She sighed, closed her eyes and slammed her head back down into her arms.

“And, well, the Magistrate apparently knows your name. And won't take no for an answer.”

She mumbled incoherently into her arms.

“What was that?” Varric asked.

Her head turned onto its side. “I said, 'piss stain the pox head's auntie.'”

Varric shrugged. “Honestly? I think his auntie’s got enough problems.”

“Honestly, I bet I have her beat.”

“ _We_ probably do.”


	5. IV: Into the Breach

**IV: Into the Breach**

When he’d first arrived on the streets of Lowtown Martin had thought that he’d seen the worst of Kirkwall, the slums where those without coin or title squatted and huddled. Well, worst discounting the Alienage. He’d expected that squalor. He’d seen it before in both Highever and Denerim.

He hadn’t been prepared for Dark Town. Choked, cluttered passages of which nearly all held not even the slightest glimpse of the sun. Ramshackle huts built into and out of the dampened walls. Sewage flowing in front of and even through said huts, sickened and dying scattered all around. And above it all, many were ferelden.

He could hear her in his thoughts, remember how she’d spoken in Lothering. _Contemptible creatures, unable to grasp life so they lie about in hedges and roads awaiting the Blight_. She had insulted Alistair’s protests, mocking them further for _their moaning and gnashing of teeth_. She had seemed heartless then, cruel even. Yet she had seemed to soften as they traveled together, as she’d opened up to Martin. And then she had left. _Was it all a lie? A lie for her ritual? Did she speak truer in Lothering than she did in our bedroll?_ His hand twitched towards his neck, towards the cord that hung there.

He shook off the thought, reached to the flask strapped below his hammer on his right thigh and took a quick sip. Corking the bottle, he looked to his companions.

Carver wore the barest minimum of armor, a browned leather chest piece over his tunic with vambraces and shin guards. His true armor lay in the permanent scowl he wore on his face, often times directed at Martin. They hadn’t spoken directly since their first meeting, though an air of cold tension hovered between them. Martin returned the enmity wholeheartedly. Carver was, as far as he could tell, a petulant child in need of a good slapping.

Varric, the illustrious beardless dwarf who he’d heard so much about from Hawke was anything but illustrious. The man wore a dusted leather jacket, probably bronto skin, with a small plate underneath protecting his upper chest and back. He carried a strange crossbow on said back to which he constantly referred to as “Bianca” and had an irritating propensity to continuously talk at and question anyone and everyone (Bianca included). He did not refer to anyone by their proper name, save Hawke, instantly dubbing Martin upon their first meeting “Mallet.”

And then there was Hawke. She wore more obvious leather armor now, practical and muted. Her short black hair was disheveled as if she had just woken up. She wore a buckler strapped to one forearm and a short spear strapped to her back, a strangely quality weapon with the image of Andraste carved into its handle as a sort of pommel guard. She’d been muttering all afternoon after she’d introduced Martin and Varric, the only words which Martin could pick up being the occasional curse. He noticed there were significantly more after they’d made the descent into Darktown.

All in all it looked to be an interesting evening. He wasn’t sure if he liked that.

“So Varric,” Hawke said as she led the way down through the dark passages. “Remind me again, how much are we getting paid for this?”

Varric sighed. “Maker’s breath, Hawke. Have you ever heard the expression, ‘if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times?’”

“Git!” Hawke shouted loudly as she stepped into some rank sludge dribbling down a slight incline into a hut to her left. She cast the hut, evidently unoccupied, and evil glare. “Not you Varric. I’ve been here enough with Athenril’s boys, and I never wanted to come down to this shite hole again.”

“Too right,” muttered Carver behind Martin.

“In all honesty,” Varric replied thinly. “I actually like this place. It has a certain charm and character, the kind you usually only hear about in the best of stories. Gloom, doom, with no room – what’s not to love?”

“Bull, Varric!” Carver shouted this time. “You’re talking out your bloody arse.”

“Well,” he shrugged, an eye roll practically audible in his tone. “You figured it out. I actually hate Darktown. You got me.”

Hawke cursed again as she stumbled. “The bloody reward, Varric! When I’m ankle deep in shite I need to remember why!”

“Easy, easy. I haggled him up to ten sovereigns. _Ten sovereigns_. Just imagine.” The dwarf’s grin was obvious, and Martin imagined the man making a theatrical flourish with the words.

“Well,” Hawke said, leading them around a bend in the tunnel. They entered a large round cistern, walls smudged and plastered in layers of filth. The stone itself was a darker brown than the tan of most of Kirkwall’s construction. Older, evidently. Mercifully, a hatch opened at the conical center of the ceiling – formerly a well or something of that nature. Dimmed light of the sundown floors and floors above shone through, piercing the gloom.

“Well,” Hawke repeated. “That leaves two sovereigns, fifty silver for each of us. Not a bad days work, all considering. At this rate, if we don’t eat, sleep, live, or visit whorehouses – we’ll be ready in three months. Obviously I count this last week in total for my guess.”

Martin was surprised at how little he cared. The money would certainly help his situation, keep him boarded in his room at the Hanged Man for a few weeks longer. The important thing was to busy himself so that he could forget. Though something about Hawke intrigued him. Something intangible.

Following her was definitely better than drinking himself into a stupor in the shithole that was the Hanged Man. Even in his fugue dreams _she_ still haunted him.

_Shithole._ A small grin broke on to his face as he latched onto the distraction. _From one to another, it seems._

“Not bad,” Martin agreed, the grin still on his face.

“So Mallet decides to join us at long last,” Varric cawed. “I may have only met you today, but I’m still impressed that those are only the second and third words I’ve heard out of you. I can’t imagine not talking for five minutes, and here you’ve gone and kept mum for _four hours_.”

Martin checked his flask again and took another sip. The comforting heat that passed down his throat made the passage somewhat less awful. _I can’t smell much, at least._ “I did not have anything _to_ say. Though as I recall, the first word I spoke to you was my name.”

“Bahh,” Varric retorted jovially. “I remember your name, and it doesn’t fit. Mallet suits you, and you’re not going to convince me otherwise.”

“You better get used to it,” Carver grunted. “He’s attached to his names, Varric is.”

“Is that frustration I hear in your voice, Junior?” Varric said innocently, though the sound of his grin went from amused to shit-eating.

“I told you to bloody not call me – “

“Calm your tits, brother,” Hawke called from the front. “He could always name you something more accurate, like ‘tosser’ or ‘currently stuck with a stick stuck up his arse.’”

Martin glanced back to see Carver grinding his teeth to the quick. “As you say, sister,” he muttered.

Silence prevailed for a moment, before Varric snickered. “’Stuck with a stick stuck?’”

She threw an insulting gesture his way without breaking her stride, earning a surprisingly loud laugh from the diminutive dwarf.

They continued on in silence for a bit, this time through what amounted to a thoroughfare. A large, open passageway, evidently widened by the inhabitants of Darktown over the centuries. A couple dozen people clustered in various groups, examining and arguing in hushed tones over ramshackle stalls of goods.

“Why would anyone ever come down here of all places to haggle?” Carver asked loudly, earning him obvious hostile stares of the closest cluster. “Lowtown’s got half as much shit covering the goods, and it’s not down in this sewer.”

Hawke snorted from ahead. “I know you were just muscle Carver, but you have to remember moving down here just a few short months ago? Used to be we moved the cargo down here. Lowtown’s not exactly law-abiding, but no guard’s _ever_ patrolling down here.”

Varric spoke up. “I once bought a belt buckle down here. Filthiest human I’ve ever seen, beard down to his ankles had a little stall in a corner under the docks. Buckle itself was some tribal thing. ‘Marefath’s codpiece itself,’ He said, practically drooling. ‘And what a cod he must’ve had!’” Varric paused dramatically. “Wanna see? I just polished it this morning.”

“Shut your bloody face, dwarf,” Carver spat. “Bad enough I’m stuck down here, but stuck down here with you – “

“Easy there, Junior, no need to – “

Before Carver could explode again, Hawke called back. “Both of you, quiet now before someone here sends certain someone elses sprawling into the muck for the worst lunch they’ve ever had.”

That shut them up for a time, giving the motley group silence as they marched through Darktown. They passed through another open cistern, this one with walls gouged out to form small chambers carved into the stone. Upon closer inspection Martin noted that the stone looked off in those chambers – darker, softer. Perhaps centuries of leaked sewage had rendered hard stone into loamy rotten soil. Or perhaps it was just more filth that the bedraggled inhabitants cannibalized for their pitiful existences. Eyes peered out from one covered chamber. Martin quickly averted his gaze.

As they rounded another bend, leaving the squalid chambers behind them an ambient muttering began to rise from ahead. There were people gathered, and they were talking. As their party drew closer and rounded another bend the muddled sound rose even louder. They weren’t just talking, they were shouting.

Another corner and the people were upon them. Arguing, occasional shouts, and jostling. Ahead the corridor opened wider than any chamber they’d been to before, the stone stained black all about as if by fire. The floor was jagged and uneven, and in the center of the room stood a trio of armed men in the garb of city guardsmen. Around and about them was a small crowd of perhaps twenty or so people, pushing and muttering. One man in the crowd, a haggard elf in relative finery hurled abuse at the guards.

“Injustice! We tell you the monster is in there below, and what do you do? You protect him you bastards, you _shem_!”

Of the three guardsmen, only one had the half-plate Martin had come to associate with them. He was stocky with the face of a noble-born, high cheekbones and a strong jawline. His noble visage split into a horrible sneer.

“Oi, if we want to hear you talk, knifey, we’ll ask for it. Otherwise shut it, ‘fore I shut it with me gauntlet.”

“There are more of us than there are of you,” another elf, a woman this time near the back of the crowd stammered. Though her words were brave, her voice was anything but.

_Nearly all of them are elves,_ Martin realized. No one they had seen in this hellhole of an undercity had been anything but human, and now twenty elves surrounded a few guardsmen? As bad as elves typically had it, they generally were welcoming to their own kind within their alienages. They weren’t like the ferelden refugees, the plague ridden, or any other of the true castoffs of Kirkwall. Darktown wasn’t their home.

_So what the hell are they doing here?_

“By order of the ploughin’ guard,” the noble guardsman shouted. “This hole’s sealed – now unless you’re…” the man trailed off as he saw over the heads of the elves crowding him, catching sight of their small band. He immediately pushed through the elves, uncaring as he knocked them aside to move up to Hawke and Varric. The elves shrunk back at his touch.

He gestured down to the dwarf. “You Tethras?”

Varric bowed extravagantly. “Varric Tethras, professional story-teller and younger brother at your service. My companions are – “

The noble guard sniffed, grimacing. “No need for bloody introductions,” he interrupted. You’re Tethras, which means you’re the boys meant to go after the fugitive.”

“Yes,” Hawke said, sounding both rankled and frustrated. “We’re the boys.”

“About ploughin’ time,” the guard said, turning back to the crowd. “Scoot you bloody knife-ears! These gents here are about to grab your killer!”

The elves exploded in excitement, throbbing and thranging up against the guardsmen – not attacking but pushing to make themselves heard.

“Kill the bastard!”

“Creators spit on you shems!”

“Andraste spit on you, heretic!”

“Three times! Three times he’s been captured, and for what! He’ll come back, mark my words!”

Ahead of him, Martin saw the fine dressed elf push up to Hawke, taking her shoulder. He said something to her, and she followed him into the crowd. Varric continued on towards the hole, Martin in toe. Carver pushed passed Martin and moved towards the crowd.

Through the din, Martin heard him mutter as he passed. “Always stickin’ her nose – “

When they reached the hole, the guard turned. “Where’d your mates go? Hells, if this don’t get done proper quick I swear me and the boys are going to bust some of these fucking knife-eared shits down to size.”

Martin stepped up to Varric, who smiled thinly. “Oh,” he shouted. “Those two do this all the time. Get lost, I mean. They’ll be back in a minute.” Turning to Martin, the dwarf grimaced and mouthed ‘I hope.’

Martin peered down the oppressive hole to see rotted wooden planks nailed into loamy wall that quickly were consumed by an absolute darkness. He leaned back hurriedly.

“If you’re so eager to complete your task, why not go down yourself?” Martin asked the guardsman. “You said it yourself, it’s only one fugitive, correct?”

The guardsman through a contemptuous look Martin’s way. “Two reasons,” he replied, holding out two fingers and grasping each one in turn. “One, it isn’t my bloody job. Magistrate ordered us to locate, not to pull the man out. That’s up to you boys. Second, it isn’t just the one bastard down there. He threw out some knifey carcasses. That brings the rat eaters.”

Martin crooked an eyebrow and looked to Varric.

“They’re especially huge rats that live in and under Darktown.” Varric shouted, concern now on his face. “They’re _really_ nasty.”

“If you knew a damn thing about this city, you’da heard of them,” the guardsman interjected. “Course we get sent fereldens. Don’t know shite,” he slapped his thigh and gestured to the crowd. “and fuck off to consort with knife-ears.”

“They don’t seem to like this guy very much,” Varric shouted again. “I’m guessing he’s been at it for a while?”

“Bah!” The guardsman laughed hideously. “Damn right they don’t. He’s a foal cutter. Goes after little elves, cuts them up and spreads their insides about. Usually leaves them in alleys in Lowtown near the Alienage, only this time got seen doing it. Bloody knifey’s chased him down here to this hole, which apparently is his.” He kicked his boot towards it. “Some of them followed cutter down, got caught in a bear trap, then had their foals thrown over their heads in bits. Brought the rat eaters on. Think only a couple got out.” He spit towards the hole.

One of the other guardsman leaned in and shouted. “Funniest sight I ever saw, two elves shooting up out the ground coated in guts and screaming their mewly heads off.”

“Shut it,” the noble guardsman barked back. “Mind the bloody crowd.”

As the other guard moved to obey the noble guardsman grunted angrily.

Absolutely disgusted, Martin shouted over the crowd, “That must’ve pleased you to no end, hearing about that.”

The guardsman answered by swinging back to Martin with a look of absolute fury. “What do you think I am, _ferelden_? They may be disgusting, godless knife-ears; but by Andraste’s ploughin’ bowl even they don’t deserve that shite. Cutter’s going for kids, bastard deserves a gibbet.”

He leaned closer. “Though magistrate’s orders be magistrate’s orders. Wants him alive, and unharmed. Got it?”

Varric nodded, a queasy expression on his face. “We got it.”

It was then that Hawke emerged from the crowd, Carver in toe. Hawke had a look of utter fury on her face while Carver’s only displayed annoyance.

“Down we go,” Hawke barked without ceremony as she passed Martin and immediately leapt into the hole, disappearing from sight.

The noble guardsman gaped stupidly. “Is she daft? Does she even know what’s down there?”

“No, but she’s going anyway.” Varric replied, a strange smile on his face. “It tells you something about Hawke, doesn’t it?”

Carver stepped by, grumbling, but didn’t hesitate as he lowered himself down after his sister.

Varric looked to Martin, shrugged, and followed suit.

The noble guardsman looked to the hole, then to Martin. “You lot are bloody mad.”

Martin ignored the man and stepped up to the hole and paused. He reached into his shirt and found a small wooden ring that hung from a cord around his neck. Felt it. Remembered.

Then he too, followed Varric into the breach.


	6. V: What Lies Below

**V: What Lies Below**

Hawke hit the bottom of the hole, boots sinking into some unidentifiable sludge in the inky black. She reached into a pouch tied at the small of her back and pulled out a torch. She looked back up the ladder, stupidly, unable to see much but the light far up. _I made it down right quick._

She was mad. No, mad was putting it way too lightly. Hawke was _furious_. _Throat-cutting furious. Burn-a-nobber’s-house-down furious._ She channeled that rage, _willed_ it into life. She felt the tingling chilld of the fade in her fingertips as she conjured flame to light her torch. As its fire revealed the chamber before her Carver landed behind her, splashing the sludge ever which way. She still couldn’t tell what it was aside from the fact that it ranked, that it was an oily black, and was up to her ankles. _Best to keep the torch away._

“Are you bloody mad?” Carver snapped as he landed. “We’re not alone. They could’ve seen you. You want to get caught?”

 _Oh of any day for it you picked the worst brother_. “Carver, when will you learn that I know what I’m doing? That with years of hiding I’ve learned to tell who I can trust and who I can’t?”

“Yeah, I always forget with you telling me every other Maker-cursed day. Thing is, you play loose and cock up - it’s on us, _sister_. Both of us.”

“It’s on me regardless, _brother_. They aren’t looking for whiny siblings.”

“Harboring, I am. And so is Mother. Do you even think about her? But since you know so much better,” he spat. “Would you mind explaining why you flew down here in such a rush?”

It was at that moment Varric chose to land. “Would you two please keep it down? You may not have heard, but there’s rat eaters down here.”

Carver sneered in the flickering light. “’Rat eaters?’ Is that what they call us fereldens down below?”

Martin slid down and hit sludge as Varric answered. “No, they call you ‘mongrels’ or ‘dog fuckers.’ Rat eaters are really, really big rats. They smell blood and they come to kill. Also they travel in packs.”

Martin had already loosened the straps on his hammers and was scanning the tunnel around them. It wasn’t an actual construction, more like the work of erosion and occasional digging into the base of the soft rock beneath the city. The chamber they stood in held barely enough room for Hawke to stand in, let alone Carver or Martin. Varric seemed comfortable enough, albeit occasionally glancing in distress at the sludge nearly up to his knees. He had his crossbow drawn and cocked.

“So it’s a bit more dangerous, eh?” Hawke asked, drawing her spear and stepping forward. There was nowhere else to go, though the passage ahead looked to shrink and narrow both at the same time. _Who’d would’ve thought this morning I’d be crawling in… stop that thought. I don’t want to know._ “It’s for a good cause.”

“What cause?” Carver sneered. “This is _work_. We’re here for coin, no other reason. We left causes behind at Ostagar.” He sniffed the air and grimaced. “That reminds me, what the hell did that elf want with you?”

 _To tell me_ _that our fugitive’s been caught before. That he’s killed before. That he tortures children, removes their organs, and leaves them in the street for their families to find. That more than half a dozen children are still missing, probably dead down here. That he would pay us all he could to gut the bastard. To finally end what the Guard won’t._

“He told me my shoes brought out the color of my eyes.”

“Fine, be that way. Do what you want as usual. Let’s just pick this bastard up and get right out.”

“And be careful of rat eaters,” Varric chimed. “They’ll bite your ankles a lot harder than even you can manage, Junior.”

Hawke barely heard Varric’s quip as she moved forward, stopping to fit through the narrow passageway. Her only focus was on moving forward. If she thought about what that elf had said, if she thought about what she was wading through… _Maker protect us._

She dimly realized that Varric had poked at Carver again, but this time her brother hadn’t flown off. _I should be proud of the git._

Even with her torch she couldn’t see forward farther than a few yards. The blackness seemed to swallow the light whole unnaturally close to the group. Still, she pressed on, careful to wade rather than step as the sludge rose ever higher.

The horrible stench that invaded and pervaded everywhere only grew worse. Further rot, further decay – her eyes began to sting with it. _End what the Guard won’t. Please, my daughter -_

“We are coming up on fresh corpses,” Martin stated from the rear of the column, his voice low but not quite a whisper. “No more than a day old.”

“And just how the bloody hell can you tell that?” Carver demanded.

Hawke couldn’t see Martin’s face as she halted and squinted forth into the black. _How indeed._

“The smell,” Martin answered simply.

“I smell exactly rot and shit,” Carver bit back. “As I have the whole time down here.”

“Me too.” Varric chimed. “How often do you have to spend time in hellholes to be able to tell the difference between ‘rotten shit’ smell and ‘rotten people’ smell?

“Too much time,” Martin replied with feeling. “The difference is difficult to describe. Fresh meat stands out from the old rot quite noticeably to me.”

Hawke tuned them out, focusing on that blackness ahead. Since their entrance into the passage they had known a pervasive silence broken only by the sounds they themselves made. Now she thought she heard… chittering.

“As fascinated as I am in the variances between different types of shit smell,” Hawke said, still pricking her ears up ahead. “I believe those corpses are not alone.”

“Rat eaters,” Varric groaned, audibly cocking his crossbow.

“I suppose it would’ve been too good of them to only eat rats,” Hawke muttered as she raised her torch defensively and couched her spear. “Time to earn our pay lads.” She stepped forward with a confidence she didn’t feel and proceeded towards the chattering.

Pretty soon the tunnel opened somewhat and ramped upward, slowly lowering the level of the sludge. _Small comfort that, though ‘one can never be ungrateful to the Maker for small mercies,’ as da always said. ‘At least he’s looking on.’_

They entered a relatively large chamber, evidently a part of a sewer system even older than that of Darktown proper. Yellowed light ate at the darkness ahead, and through the flickering haze she could see movement, big and scurrying. “Right, come on!” She shouted as she stepped forward again. Chattering and splashing filled the room, then an unholy cacophony of hisses.

Shadows danced at the edge of the light as she felt Carver pull along her right side, Martin to her left. _Where the bloody hell is Varric?_ She didn’t get a chance to look as suddenly the shadows took form.

Half a score of dark creatures loped towards them, hissing madly. From what she could make out in the split second she had to see them they appeared similar to rats but stood nearly up to her waist.

She could think no more as their splashing, sprinting gait reached her makeshift line of defense. She raised her buckler and stabbed forth with her spear at the closest monster, terror building in her gut as she heard its horrible screech of agony.

An absolute chaos erupted as the rest crashed into them. Carver stepped forward, shielding her right flank and engaging three of the monstrosities. Martin out of the corner of her eye moved as a blur – crushing several in only a few seconds.

Another two were upon her then, one particularly large blighter opening its cavernous jaws as it leapt towards her face. She pivoted backwards and thrust with her spear, gasping as the force of the rat’s flight skewered itself halfway down its length. She dropped her spear hurriedly as it continued to struggle in its death throes, raising her buckler and flailing with her torch in near panic as the other rat eater leapt for her.

Two bolts fired past her, catching the creature midair and slowing its flight. It hit her shield heavily and fell dead into the sludge, nearly dragging her with it.

Sudden silence flooded the chamber.

Carver grunted as he pushed a rat eater off his blade with his foot, wiping the blade on the sleeve of his tunic. Martin squatted beside her in the muck, spattered with blood, and took the rat eater she’d skewered in his gloved hands. She pulled her spear out of it gratefully as Varric stepped up from the shadows behind. Hawke glanced to the dwarf to see his pate pale and his crossbow hard clutched in his hands.

“Mallet, uh, don’t mind me but – what are you doing?” Varric asked, his voice queasy.

Hawke turned back to Martin to see him still holding the creature, probing the wounds and pulling back its fur slightly. He ignored Varric’s question for a moment, apparently deep in thought.

“Making friends, most like,” Carver sneered. “Must be right at home, with his smells and his bloody rats.”

Martin turned the rat eater over and looked up to Hawke. “These creatures… they are familiar.”

She finally looked directly at the creature. Under the torchlight its fur seemed to quiver back from the light, though long tufts of it were missing. Instead ochre rotted flesh appeared to cut through its hide, small dark horns jutting off every so often. Martin rotated the head into the light, opening its horribly large jaws to expose the blackened mouth within. Rows of razor sharp teeth stabbed out at random intervals, rather than a set jawline. Those strange ochre patches lined the inside of the tongue-less mouth just as it did the creature’s hide.

Martin released the head of the creature, stood up and kicked it away. It spun lazily in the now shallow sludge.

“I don’t recall anything that nasty in Ferelden,” Hawke joked with false levity. “Though I never did get to see Highever.”

Martin looked at her blankly. “These ‘rat eaters’ are corrupted,” he said simply.

“The Blight?” Carver worriedly asked, glancing down at the dark blood now staining his sleeve. “Course it would be our luck to run right back into it.”

Martin shook his head immediately. “No, though it looks similar. The Fade. They resemble abominations.”

“Abominations?” Hawke looked at the carcasses with an even greater revulsion. “Well, they certainly look straight out of a nightmare.”

“You weren’t kidding about the shit you’ve seen,” Varric said. “Only people I know who’ve actually seen abominations are Templars, and they’re not the talkative type.”

“Are these rat eaters common?” Martin asked, turning to Varric.

Varric shrugged. “They tend to go after fresh kills down here, below Darktown. Don’t think I’ve heard of them anywhere else, if that’s what you mean. I don’t really enjoy swimming through shit enough to be down here much. Or at all.”

“Satisfy your urge to gab above ground,” Carver snarled. “If you don’t like bathing in shite, then let’s get a move on.”

“Eloquently put, brother.” Hawke quipped. “If you’re all finished?”

Martin nodded and moved to the back of the group. Varric checked his crossbow, manually loaded several bolts into its berth from a pouch slung across his torso. Then he too nodded.

Hawke turned and strode forth once again into the blackness ahead. She didn’t get far. Within a dozen paces she felt her ankle hit something hard.

She cast both her torch and eyes downwards – and saw a desiccated corpse half submerged in the minimal sludge, its eyes and lips eaten out, black blood and sludge coagulating in the gaping hole where the elf’s mouth had once been.

She quickly raised her torch, sick to her stomach.

Carver muttered behind her.

“What?” Varric asked from behind. “We just going to start and stop? What is it Hawke?”

“Mind your footing,” she answered. “Soil’s pretty ripe. Step high.”

She could hear Carver’s scowl as she stepped over the corpse. She moved on quickly, taking large upward steps to avoid any obstacles. She was only partially successful, occasional feeling the weight of objects hitting her boots. Some stood their ground, but many she could feel spin and float off as she hit them.

Varric grunted loudly as his boot hit hard into something Hawke must’ve missed. “What…” the dwarf grumbled, his voice suddenly shifting into one of horror. “Maker’s breath, is that…”

Martin’s voice interrupted him, his tone hard. “Yes. Eyes up, if you value your stomach.”

 _Don’t look, don’t look Nell._ She lowered the torch for a moment, catching the brief glimpse of gnawed bones and strips of flesh – all stained in blood and bile. One in particular stood out to her, a length of bone bent in half and inked black by the sludge. Licked clean, save for the rotting remains of a hand at one end. _Too small, it’s too small._

She kept the torch firmly raised from that moment on, moisture now stinging her eyes. _Press on. Press on. End it. Feel later, you silly fool._

A few minutes later a passage way emerged out of the darkness ahead. Like the rest of this foul tunnel it looked to be carved out of the loam by the flow of sewage, though the wall ahead was near black and looked to be sturdier than the rest of the tunnel. The sludge below had finally receded to barely lapping the tips of Hawke’s boots as she reached the tight entranceway.

She shoved her torch inwards, cautiously following with her head.

Unrotted planks had been placed overtop the fluid with old worn rugs thrown down every so often. Roughspun cloth lined the walls and a heavy wooden door lay open where Hawke now stood. For Darktown, it looked practically cozy. _The highlife for those who live in shite. It still smells of it. That and…_ _Maker damn it all_. She realized she could now smell the difference. She took a deep breath and stepped in, steps light upon the carpets.

Small alcoves like the ones in Darktown proper appeared to her sides as she made her way down the corridor, towards a bend at the end. Some were innocuous; housing only jars, boxes, or nothing at all. Others were not so much – in one Hawke saw bones arranged in a circle. Long, probably leg bones stained brown. In the center of that circle, a nearly invisible ring of teeth.

_Press on. End it. Feel later._

She quickly put her eyes on her boots, only to see a series a grapefruit sized skulls between two planks in the muck below. Partially crushed and missing their teeth.

Hawke gripped the torch in her hand ever tighter, casting it towards the last alcove before the corridor turned sharply to her right. More boxes. She didn’t want to look any closer, dreaded what she might see there – but stopped as she saw a flicker of movement.

“To our left!” She called to her companions behind. Carver, who’d been doggedly on her tail stepped past her, shielding her as he brought his sword upwards into a stabbing position. _Too little room to swing in here_. Behind her, Varric noisily cocked his crossbow.

“Please! You have to help!” A small face popped out from behind the box. Haggard and bruised, pale blonde hair twisted around her pointed ears. Her eyes were wide.

Carver stopped in his tracks, his grip slackening on his sword. Hawke pushed past him, put her spear on the ground and cautiously stepped up towards the child. She didn’t move away, but she trembled madly.

“Come now love,” Hawke cooed softly to the child. “You’re safe. We won’t hurt you.”

The child shrunk back somewhat, melting Hawke’s heart. “Are the rats gone?”

Hawke looked back to Varric, who nodded. Martin had stepped back from the dwarf, his eyes on the path they’d come from. She turned back to the elf girl. “We killed them.”

The girl stood still for a moment, her gaze considering as she peered over the box she hid behind. Finally she lifted her hands towards Hawke.

Hawke stepped forward and took the frail girl under her arms, pulling her over the box and into an embrace. The child clung to her, tears staining her neck.

Hawke set her down after a moment, quickly brushing off the tears that had welled in her own eyes. Last time she’d held a girl this small had been when Bethany was nine. _I was supposed to protect you, girl. I failed miserably, like the shite kicker I am._

_End it. Feel later._

“You have to help him,” the girl mumbled into Hawke’s neck. Hawke gently moved the girl out of her embrace and set her at arm’s length, keeping her hands on the girl’s shoulders.

“Help who,” she asked, anxiety creeping into her voice despite her efforts to hide it. “Are there any other children here?”

The girl shook her head emphatically. “No, you have to help _him_! He said the demons wouldn’t leave him alone unless he hurt me. Hurt us.” She sniffled. “But he let me go. He said I had to get away before he hurt me.”

“Why in Andraste’s name,” Carver barked. “Would you want that? What’s he going to do, cut on himself now?”

Hawke shot her brother an angry look before looking back to the child. She had shrunk back slightly from Carver, but stood straight again when she looked back to Hawke.

“He may have been an insensitive prig about it,” Hawke assured. “But my brother is right. Why does he need our help?”

The girl looked to Hawke with surprising sympathy. “My brother always smears mud on my pillow. Brothers are mean.”

The unexpected revelation brought out a sudden chortle from Varric. He stepped up closer to Hawke, face still pale but the hint of a genuine smile in his eyes. “I used to do the same thing! Well, with… Though my brother deserved it. Pretty sure you don’t.” He flashed a toothy grin. “Thanks kid. When you talk like that it makes me think you’re going to be okay.”

She looked to Varric and hesitantly returned his smile. “I’m okay.” She looked back to Hawke. “But _he’s_ not.”

Hawke sighed. “But you said he hurt you.”

“Don’t you see? It’s not his fault. The demons make him. He let me go to get away from them. He’s not bad, demons are!”

Hawke turned back to Martin. “You said that those rats were corrupted by the fade,” she said, leaving her question unasked.

Martin nodded slowly. “Aye, I did. Could be a demon. It hardly matters.”

“I’d think a demon would be all that matters,” Varric grumbled. “What _does_ matter then? How many demons? What color?”

_What kind maybe. From what da taught I’d rather it be Fear than Pride._

Martin shook his head emphatically as his brow furrowed. The shadows from Hawke’s torch cast the man’s eyes in complete shadow.

“This man has killed before, bloody and often. If the elves outside speak true then that doesn’t seem to stop him. If he is possessed or not, it does not matter. I know of only one cure for his kind available to us.”

“The Magistrate wants him alive,” Carver interjected, though he sounded unsure. Even _Carver balks to spare this monster._

Hawke considered for a moment, made up her mind. Then she released the girl to grasp her spear.

The girl’s eyes widened. She cried out wordlessly and dove on top of the spear. She sobbed loudly as she lay down upon it, locking it to the floor.

“Varric?” Hawke asked, voice quiet. Her heart ached. _Feel later. Feel later._

Without hesitation Varric set his crossbow down beside the girl and stepped up behind her, pulling her firmly from the weapon. _I can’t bear to look at her._ Hawke turned to head down the corridor, just now taking in the closed door a few dozen paces away. “Take – “she croaked. She cleared her throat loudly before continuing. “Take care of her Varric. We’ll finish this.”

Varric’s response was hoarser than hers. “I shouldn’t have hoped. Nobody gets out of something like this okay.”

She moved down the corridor, blocking out Varric’s words. She didn’t look back to see if Carver or Martin followed, only focused on the battered wooden door ahead.

She couldn’t stand to wait, couldn’t keep cautious. She had to end this. Without stopping she kicked the door in and couched her spear.

The room before her was small, obviously carved by hand out of the rotting earth of the sewer. It was circular like some kind of burrow, only five or six paces across. Besides the light of the torch bathing the room one spluttering candle sat on an earthen rise that resembled a table. Its surface was stained darker than the rest, a sickening rust color. On the table, pieces…

_END THIS. Feel later._

In front of it lay a man in surprising finery, a bright blue doublet and grey trousers now stained in mud and muck. As Hawke watched him he whined pitifully and curled in a fetal position.

She fought an extreme desire to kick him while he was down. Instead she asked, mind numb, “Who are you?”

The man uncurled somewhat and lifted his head towards her, his face gaunt and stained with moisture. His eyes were wild, heavy and bagged from sleeplessness. “The chosen,” he whispered. “And the damned.”

Carver and Martin stepped past her to flank her on either side, right and left. Martin crouched and seemed to take in the man before him, the strange table he curled before. He rested his arms on his thighs and allowed his wrists to cross as the hammers hung loose in his slackened grip.

“There are no spirits _here_ ,” Martin intoned calmly, a strange expression on his face.

“Oh, there aren’t are there?” Carver snapped. “You can tell their smell as well? Is it the freshness of evil that stands out from the rot and shit and piss and - ”

Hawke ignored her brother, dropped her torch on the ground and withdrew a flask from one of her many pouches. _The last of the lyrium from Athenril._ She took a sip and willed her mind forth, felt the cool breath of the fade before her. She didn’t exactly have experience finding demons, though she figured she could at least feel something not of this world if it was here.

She felt nothing. The room was startlingly… quiet.

“I can’t sense anything,” she said quietly.

The man’s eyes suddenly hardened into a crazed expression. “Ahh… connected then? Obvious. Of course Father would send one of you. As blind as the mundane. You can never see, never hear the voices that _Command_. That _Control_.” He beat his fists down on the floor in frustration, splashing a liquid that Hawke just noticed he was lying in. _His own filth._ He looked away and rolled himself back into full fetal position.

“In dreams. On streets. In houses and lanes. They hate _them_ – they’re so beautiful. So beautiful.” He began to sob. “ _They_ must be marked. _They_ have no right to be so beautiful.” His sob broke into a strange low whine, like an animal dying. _Not far from the truth, that._

“Who is your father?” Hawke asked, sickened.

“A FOOL!” the man shouted through his whines. “He does not see, he refuses to see there is only one cure for voices. For demons. For _Command_.” He let out a keening wail as he began to seize erratically. “You must kill me! Destroy the vessel!” he cried. “You must kill me!”

Martin looked on without expression, looked up to Hawke.

“Shut your bloody trap!” Carver barked. He drove forward and kicked the man hard in the stomach. The man’s only response was to keen even louder, unbroken save for an occasional yelp. “Kill me!”

Hawke didn’t think. Couldn’t think with that horrible sound, the children in her mind, the corpses – the skulls. She felt a spectator in her own body as she kicked the man onto his back and skewered him with her spear, cutting the keening into a horrible choking gurgle as she pierced his larynx. His hands slapped uselessly against the spear shaft for a few moments before they slid down to sink into the ruined mess of his neck.

She pulled the spear out, flicking blood across her armor as she reflexively cleaned it against her thigh. The mess that once was the killer’s throat continued to bubble and foam with blood at an irregular rhythm, slowing as the light dimmed from his eyes. Finally he stilled, save for the occasional twitch of his painted hands.

In her experiences she had seen men break down, break apart, die and weep. She had seen men torn apart by darkspawn, her king pulverized in his plate by an ogre, the nameless corpses that littered the ditches and gulley’s of Darktown rotting just out of view. Those sights had been horrible, yes, but inexplicably she felt a revulsion that topped them all. Everyone had their tipping point, and she just found hers.

It was the twitching that did for her, that and her unobstructed view of her spear – her father’s carved pommel jutting from the haft stuck in the dead man’s throat.

She turned and wretched uselessly as her stomach craved for release. Tears burned her eyes. Carver dodged out of her way as she doubled over, hacking.

It was several moments of spitting before she realized there would be no release. She painfully gathered one last glob of phlegm and spat it out. She breathed heavily, willing it to slow. _Feel later. Feel later._

A warm arm wrapped about her shoulder somewhat roughly. “Sister….” Carver growled almost kindly.

She pushed herself up to see Martin still kneeling in the same spot, his eyes on her. Carver stood before her, his face hard. He nodded and stepped back. Martin turned his head back to the corpse which had thankfully stilled.

“I suppose this means we are not getting paid,” he said bemusedly.

“We could always prop him up,” Hawke offered in a voice far weaker than she’d intended. “Walk him to the Magistrate and sit him down.”

Martin looked to her stiffly, still expressionless.

“We need a scarf,” he said flatly.

 _What?_ The absurdity of his response brought the release she so desperately needed. She laughed, and laughed hard. Martin only smiled faintly while Carver scowled.

When she’d calmed down a bit Carver spoke. “I don’t see how you two can have a gaggle about this. We just waded through blood and piss and shit and corpses – fought rats apparently straight from the Fade itself all for ten bloody sovereigns _which you just sank_ with one jab of your bloody spear.”

“Relax brother,” she replied. She found it strange how quickly they sank back into their usual bickering from the madness that just occurred. “The angry elf up there. He’ll pay us for that bastard’s head.”

“And how much can he afford, can any of them afford? One sovereign? Two?” He threw up his hands in disgust. “You just do as you please every Maker-damned time.”

As Carver yelled Martin finally moved, strapping his hammers back his side and drawing a heavy dagger from his boot. She averted her eyes as she saw his target, though she couldn’t stop from hearing the sounds as he cut his way through the throat.

Carver heard it too and turned back to Martin. He recoiled in revulsion. “Piss on both of you. I’ll be with Varric,” he spat as he stormed out and back into the corridor. The grip of his sheathed sword on his back smacked loudly against the stone of the passageway.

She turned back to Martin who lifted the head by the hair. Dexterously he pulled out a roughspun bag from one of his many small pouches and shook it open with one hand.

The mashed remains of the neck still dribbled blood down on to the floor above where Martin held it. He lifted the head slightly, considering as he moved the bag towards it.

“Wait,” Hawke said. She had decided. She knew. “The girl out there. She can’t see that bag. Not dripping blood.”

He met her gaze with a solemn one of his own. “If you wish to spare her further torment in the night, know that you cannot. She will not sleep soundly again.”

His words bit at her heart and chewed. _Feel later. Feel later._

“She doesn’t have to see this,” she insisted, stepping forward. The cool whisper of the Fade flowed through her arm and lit her palm ablaze with blue fire.

She averted her eyes, grasped the neck and held it. When the smell shifted from cooked to burnt meat, she doused the flame and took her hand away.

Martin looked at her with that infuriating strange look again. _I wish I knew what it meant._ They locked eyes for a long moment.

She moved her now stained hand to her mouth and lifted a single finger to her lips.

Martin nodded once, then bagged the head. Hawke made for her torch.

Picking up Carver, the girl and Varric they headed back through the horrible living space. In their absence Varric had evidently put the girl to sleep somehow. _At least one of us is doing something right. The man’s an absolute miracle worker._ He held her, tiny hands clasped about his neck, and carried her on his stout shoulders.

Wading through the black sewage was as unpleasant going out as coming in. The darkness assaulted them still – but only accompanied by distant chittering. _Perhaps we scared the little blighters off. Good riddance._

Their ascent was brief and painless, the air losing some of its oppressive thickness as they dragged themselves upwards towards Darktown proper. _Andraste’s tits, I never thought Darktown would smell this good._ She took a deep whiff as her head passed the surface of the hole. _Ugh, I take it all back._

A strong arm took hers and dragged her out of the hole. Blearily through blinking, light-blinded eyes she made out the hawkish arrogance of the noble guardsman. Around him stood his comrades, though the crowd had thinned considerably. Only a half dozen elves remained, seated half a dozen paces away in apparent prayer.

“Didn’t think I’d see those mad eyes again,” the guardsman grunted. “Turn chicken then, aye?”

Hawke ignored him and stepped towards the elves. The one who’d spoken to her earlier, the merchant. _Elren’s his name. Fire and salt’s in him up to his pointy ears. Can’t blame him. His daughter was taken._ She had a sudden realization. _Could that daughter be the girl we just rescued?_

“You return.” Anger radiated from him though a tiny twinge of hope shone through. “Have you finally ended it for us? Have you brought justice?”

Hawke looked back to the hole to see Carver already out and standing off to one side. Varric was pulling himself up awkwardly with the child still dangling about his neck. Apparently no help for the dwarf from the guard as he too stood off to one side with his arms crossed. The girl was clearly awake now, blinking her eyes at the intrusion of light into her dark rest.

Elren followed Hawke’s gaze. He stood stupefied for a moment before roughly pushing past her and sprinting for the child.

“Papae!” She cried in sheer joy as she collided with her father in a desperate embrace.

The noble guard behind him spat into the hole at the sight and turned, evidently unawares as Martin pulled himself out. Martin threw an angry look his way before moving towards the father-daughter.

Hawke reached them the same time he did. Elren stood, his child still held in his arms. Tears streamed down in plain sight but his voice was clear. “You have returned my daughter to me. I never….” He put her down and cast her a loving look. He looked back to Hawke. “And… what of the monster?”

Martin gestured to the bag now securely hooked to his belt, dangling just behind his left hammer. He moved to retrieve it but Elren shook his head.

“No. Your word alone is good enough for me.” He reached down to his belt and untied his coin purse. Without opening it or even considering he handed the whole thing to Hawke. “This is all I can give, and all the Alienage raised for a reward. Take it with our blessing. It is good to know that someone cares for our plight.”

The elf bowed his head in respect then turned and headed back to his people. They whispered amongst themselves for a moment before they all stood and headed away. There hung a strange peacefulness to the group as they retreated, a serendipity of all. For a moment Hawke, unconsidering of the coin purse she now held in her hand, felt sure she had done something that mattered.

“So you did him in,” the noble guard shrugged. “Didn’t expect the knife-ears to pay anything for that. How much you get?”

“That hardly matters to you,” Hawke bit back acidly.

“You’re right. Still, for what little ploughing good it does you, glad that cutter is off the streets for good. Chasing after him time on was liable to make me lose me bloody mind.”

‘ _Time on’._ “He said something about his father sending us. Know anything about that?” Varric seemed to perk up at that.

“No I bloody well don’t and I don’t want to know,” the noble guard snarled. “You’re in enough trouble as it is. Right or not you disobeyed the magistrate. He don’t take kindly to disobeying. You know he’ll plough you right good when he can get the chance, right?”

Hawke shrugged. It had been the right thing. Right now she could not care less about what the damned Magistrate thought. “I suppose so. I don’t know the man.”

“He just might,” Varric interjected.

The guardsman gestured backwards to his companions. “Lucky for us we’re not you. Bugger it all.” He turned away without ceremony. “Keep your noses out of the shit if you know what’s good for you.”

He waved to his companions, who fell in step behind them. Within moments they had disappeared in the opposite direction the elves had taken. _Back to report no doubt._

Martin withdrew the flask he’d been nursing before they’d gone down into the hole and took a long drag. Partially through he suddenly stopped, seemingly remembering Hawke and he offered her the flask.

“After today,” Hawke answered loosely, “I don’t think that measly offering will be enough.”

Martin shrugged. “The Hanged Man, then? Surely we can afford at least a round or two off of what the elf gave us.”

Hawke jingled the pouch uncertainly.

“One round at least.” Martin insisted.

She huffed. “At least.”

Martin nodded. “Then it is settled.” In a brief movement he unhooked the bag from his belt and held it aloft for a moment. He glanced contemptuously at it, then the pit, then swung his arm back to throw.

Varric stepped in abruptly. “Hang on Mallet. Let me take it, I’ll see it gets the proper ceremony.”

Martin had stopped mid-swing and now stared at Varric incredulously. He looked to the bag, then to Varric, then to the hole. Finally he shrugged and handed the bag to Varric.

“He does not deserve such respect,” Martin said.

“Murderer or not, he was still a person.” Varric replied. “You guys go on ahead. I’ll take care of our friend here.”

Martin shrugged and took another swig from his flask. Hawke waved Carver over as Martin held the flask to her yet again.

“First round,” Martin explained.

This time she took it.

[=]

Varric hesitating for only half a beat before pounding on door to Magistrate Vanard’s office.

The open air courtyard of Hightown’s Chancellery in which Varric now stood felt absolutely claustrophobic. The small stone compound was not half as intimidating as the Viscount’s Keep, or even a tenth that of the Gallows, but here was where the Magistrate’s put their feet up. _Put their feet up and decide the fates of Kirkwall’s citizens who break the law. Not themselves of course. Or the people who pay them… or intimidate them… or own them..._

Twilight crept its way across the sky above, purple and red tinging the black of the walls around him into interesting contrasts. _Almost makes you forget where you are._

Varric pounded again and this time the door opened.

He was shocked to see the Magistrate himself – not a clerk or bailiff answer the door. Vanard did not cut an imposing figure: his fine ochre robes barely concealed his pot belly, and his arms were thin with slender fingers. His face belied the rest of him – gaunt and hallow, the Magistrate’s eyes were stone murder.

“Tethras…?” Vanard breathed in disbelief. His voice came out congested and Varric had to turn his face away for a moment. _Booze. Never seen Vanard touch the stuff before._ “You dare show your face here?“ He looked past Varric, searching. “I’ll see you in chains vagrant - “

Varric smiled congenially. “Magistrate, I’m sure this isn’t a conversation you want to have here, or with a guardsman present.”

The Magistrate stopped at that. He paused to collect himself, staring daggers at Varric the whole while. Then he turned and stepped back inside. Varric followed and shut the door behind him.

The Magistrate didn’t even move past his clerk’s desk, didn’t make his way back to his own office. Instead he turned immediately, trapping Varric in the cramped little gateway to the Magistrate’s domain. “We have _nothing_ to discuss, _dwarf_ ,” the Magistrate growled. “You broke your contract. You have lost what little confidence I had in you. Leave me.”

Varric shook his head, his grin tightening. “I seem to remember we took care of an embarrassment for you. An escaped fugitive. A murderer.”

“You were to bring him back alive!” Vanard barked. “Alive! You did not and so the contract is unfulfilled. Leave at once, before I really do summon the guard.” The man looked ready to kill.

“Oh,” Varric bluffed, some fear starting to gnaw at the back of his mind. _Maybe not piss on the Magistrate’s face. Though, nothing ventured..._ “I wouldn’t say the contract’s unfulfilled. I brought him back. Just not alive.”

In one motion Varric took the sack off his own belt and shoved it into the Magistrate’s hands. The man looked at it stupidly for a moment before he peaked inside the bag. It fell heavily to the floor without bounce.

“You… barbaric…” the Magistrate managed to choke out.

“Barbaric? That’s hurtful,” Varric retorted with as much bravado as he could muster. “I don’t think the Merchant’s Guild would appreciate someone referring to one of their own as ‘barbaric.’ We wear clothes, live in houses – even use forks to eat with. Sometimes. Properly civilized.”

Vanard shut his mouth immediately, but his eyes continued their murderous stare _. Bad idea Varric. Bad idea._ Varric thought to back down. Discarded the thought. _Way too late._

“You know, I wouldn’t usually wonder why someone like you would care so much about protecting a murdering bastard who preys on kids. I mean, you’d think someone’s paying you. Or maybe owes you a favor. Some influential father, let’s say, someone who still loves his son despite his little flaw of cutting up and murdering people.” Varric couldn’t keep the contempt out of his voice anymore. “You’d think that this father would pay to at least fill the responsibility of properly sending off his sons sodding victims.”

The Magistrate breathed hard, fury evident. “How. Much.” Was all he managed, probably could manage to strain out.

“Don’t let anyone ever tell you that House Tethras of the Dwarven Merchant’s Guild doesn’t deal fair. We brought your fugitive back, but not whole. We got what mattered I’d say, so six sovereigns.” _Now shut up._ “Plus one for pain and suffering.”

The Magistrate stood deathly still for a moment before he abruptly turned and marched into his own office. He came back a moment later with a small coin purse, which he threw at Varric’s feet. “I will not be blackmailed,” he declared.

“Blackmail? Don’t be silly,” Varric chided. “This is a one-time business transaction. I don’t think House Tethras will deal with the honorable Magistrate ever again after this.”

Varric scooped up the money, careful not to touch the bagged head. As he turned to leave, the Magistrate spoke.

“The next time I see you, you shall adorn a gibbet atop the Gallows.”

Varric barely managed to suppress the involuntary shiver that ran up his back.

“And I’m sure you’ll be right beside me, what with all you and the young one got yourselves into.” Varric couldn’t resist turning back right before he closed the door. “And a gibbet and gallows are the same thing.”

 _Well. That went well._ As he hurriedly walked away he dug through the coin purse, counting. _Trade coin for a ‘friend,’ get coin for an ‘enemy.’ Shit, probably an actual enemy. Life’s not fair._

Moving without thinking he allowed himself to dream on the Hanged Man. He hoped he would make the third round of drinks at least. Knowing Hawke, he wouldn’t.

_Life definitely isn’t fair._


	7. VI: Isolation

**VI: Isolation**

“Nora! Nora, you pasty wench!” Hawke shouted, her words slurring nearly imperceptibly. “Where’s our pitcher? I am positively dying of thirst over here!”

Carver doubted any of the other patrons of the Hanged Man could notice the slur. Nell always tried ever so carefully to enunciate, taking pride in her book learning and in her intelligence. _Anything to show everyone how much better she is. At everything._

They sat together; Martin, Nell and Carver at a table far from the comfort of any wall. Carver would’ve preferred sitting in the corner out of sight. Out of the attention of others. _But Nell likes to talk, likes to make friends._ Not Carver. He’d grown up knowing that both of his sisters could be taken if discovered. Forced to live in a circle, never to be seen again. _Father too I guess, but he didn’t need me to look out for him._

The Hanged Man was absolutely packed, the chaos of fifty or more sailors, whores, thugs and degenerates livening the place up to an uproar. Carver could barely hear his drinking companions, and the place stank of all manners of human filth as he sipped the awful beer. _Feels like H_ _alf of Lowtown_ _is_ _here, drowning the sorrows of their Maker-forsaken lives in the only tavern they can afford. Bollocks, suppose_ _I’m one_ _of_ _ **them**_ _now._ He grimaced at the thought.

He missed Danal’s old place in Lothering. Not as much action, true, but it was clean. _The drinks didn’t taste as if Danal had pissed in the still, and the girls there were…_ he struggled to find the words. _Clean? Pretty? Not filled with lice or pox? And some had red hair…_

He drank a silent toast to the chantry sister he’d never gotten to bed, then took a long survey of the room for any potential lays. _Shite or not, cheaper than the Rose._

A loud belch brought him back to the table. Nell grinned stupidly at him while Martin actually smirked. _First time in his miserable life I expect._

“You looked… _distracted_ , brother.” Nell’s smile widened to an infuriating level. “There’s no time for girls, not yet. Tonight, we all are getting drunk together – as friends.”

Carver clenched his mug tightly in his hands. “At the rate you’re going, dear sister, I’ll be free to go have my fun soon enough.”

Nell laughed merrily and slammed her empty mug down. “That’s the spirit. Though I’m not passing out until our handsome dwarven friend arrives. Don’t want to have to break you away to escort me home.”

“There is no need to fret, Hawke,” Martin interjected. He too looked to have finished his drink, his mug pushed away to the center of the table. He didn’t show it all, except for his sudden lightness to his tone. Nell on the other hand did show it with her slight slur and flushed cheeks. “I shall keep myself sober enough to bring you safely to your door.”

Nell beamed at him. “A gentleman in Lowtown I see. About as out of place as a hen in a whorehouse.”

 _She fancies him,_ Carver realized. He felt absolutely disgusted. “Careful what you volunteer for,” he sneered, his voice acid. “Knowing my sister you’ll need to carry her all the way to bed.” He punctuated his statement with a deep drag from his drink, finally draining it completely.

Nell shot him a look that pleased him to no end while Martin’s expression tightened, his head tilting as he did so. “I would say she deserves to skip walking - after today.”

Nell shivered visibly and Carver felt a sliver of shame for his words. It only made him dislike Martin more.

Before anyone could say anything else the comely form of Norah stepped up from behind Carver and dropped a full clay pitcher on the table’s center. The force sloshed a sizeable amount of drink over the vessel’s battered brim and onto the alcohol stained wood.

Nell sat up with a start. “Norah, how could you! What a waste of perfectly terrible hooch!”

Norah saddled up alongside Carver, dragging her side pleasantly against his shoulder. She ignored him pointedly and thrust her hand out to Nell. “Thirty coppers!” She shouted over the din in a timed, practice tone.

His sister gaped at her. “Would you bite of bread and ask full price? For shame girl, for shame. How can you live with yourself with such injustice?” Hawke’s cry was exaggerated, comedic.

Norah kept her hand held out, silently waiting, though she put her other hand on her hip.

The deadlock was broken by another familiar voice behind Carver. “Here Norah,” Varric called. They all turned to look at the dwarf, coin purse in his hand. The smile on his face was one of absolute satisfaction.

“Oh pardon me Master Tethras,” Norah beamed at him. “I didn’t see you was here.”

“I may be short, but I’m not that short,” Varric chuckled. “I just got here.” He happily dropped several silvers into her hand. “Keep ‘em coming, beautiful.”

Norah giggled most unattractively and turned away, handing Varric a mug of his own as she did so.

Carver kept his eyes on her arse as Varric pulled up a chair beside him.

“Oh come now Carver,” Nell teased. “There are children present. Mind your eyes.”

“Oh ha ha,” Varric good-naturedly mocked. “Go after the dwarf why don’t you. Can’t you pick on someone your own size?”

Nell laughed in response and grasped the pitcher. She poured everyone a round, Varric first.

Carver grumbled but took his now filled mug gratefully.

“Where have you been?” Carver demanded. “You’ve been holding up the party.” _As irritating as he can be, Varric’s better company than Martin and Nell._

Varric’s grin threatened to split his face as he dug open his coin pouch and tossed two sovereigns each their way.

Hawke gaped ludicrously and took one of the coins before her into her hand. Martin glanced back and forth and surreptitiously covered his. Carver grabbed and pocketed his share without thinking.

“Andraste’s holy nickers, Varric, where did you conjure these up from?” Nell squinted his way suspiciously. “Rob a chantry on your way here?”

“Just convinced our Magistrate friend that we _did_ finish the job… just not like he asked.” Varric gulped down his drink with unfeigned pleasure, as if it was the finest stock in Kirkwall. “And that we should be paid accordingly.”

Martin raised his mug in salute to the dwarf. “’May your cup runeth over.’”

“Right that,” agreed Hawke. “I could kiss you, you beautiful little man. Marry you even.”

Varric shrugged apologetically. “It pains me to say, but I’m taken. Bianca’s the only girl for me.”

“Shut up and drink already,” Carver growled, following his own order. It burned all the way down, though not completely unpleasantly.

“So what progress does today make towards your little venture?” Martin asked after they’d finished their round. “Hawke has told me it will cost quite the sum.”

Anger burned up from Carver’s stomach just as the alcohol had burned down. “You tell everyone on the street too, sister?”

Martin shot him a look but Nell just laughed it off. “Just the good looking fereldens. What can I say? I’m homesick.”

“Looks more like a meat grinder got taken to his face,” Carver said under his breath.

Martin set his drink down slowly. Carver could see his jaw clenching, his hands tightening around the cup. “Is there a problem, Carver?” He asked slowly. The words seemed to grind in his mouth before he let them ooze out.

Carver dropped his cup and pushed himself to his feet. _Here we go._ “You bet there is. If you want to shag my sister, go bloody well ahead – then back right out of our _business._ We don’t need you poking around, you or your bloody hammers.”

“Hey everybody,” Varric tried to say. “Let’s just-”

Martin was on his feet faster than Carver would’ve believed possible. He kicked his chair back, the resounding clatter painfully loud as Carver realized that the bulk of the tavern had quieted.

“Someone needs to smack that mouth of yours shut,” Martin hissed dangerously.

Carver looked down at the smaller man. “And what, that’d be you? Not bloody likely.”

Martin’s hands shot down to his hammers. With his thumb he flicked the thongs open and drew them up. He dropped them heavily on the table. His cup jumped with the impacts. “Aye _boy,_ it would.”

 _That bloody bastard_ , Carver thought. _We’ll see who’s a boy when I kick his teeth down his throat._ Carver was debating whether or not to leap over the table at the sod or throw his drink at him when a voice spoke up.

“Carver...” Nell’s voice was pitiful, so desperate and sad that it drew his eyes to her. Her face was ashen, eyes pleading. As if blinders had been pulled off his head he truly noticed then the utter silence that filled the tavern. Everyone was turned, watching them. _They smell blood._

Shame crept up his stomach but he staunched it immediately. He was still furious. Furious that Nell had left him out of the loop _again_ , that she was sharing their business with some bastard she wanted to roll around with, that the same man was an insufferable prig -

Everyone was looking at them. They were noticed.

He looked to Martin, his eyes flashing with fury. Then he looked back to his sister.

“Sod this,” he said. Without ceremony he spun on his heel and marched out. When the door slammed beneath him and he stepped into a puddle of piss outside the door he cursed loudly.

He stood on the street for a moment, let his anger die down. It refused.

 _I need a woman._ He turned to his right and headed up the street, towards the Broken Bridge and Hightown. It was dark and the night air bit at his exposed arms. _I’ll have to buy Varric a round later,_ he thought. _Rose is on him tonight._

[=]

Hawke stared after Carver as he stomped out the door. She wanted to slap him, to cry out – _it isn’t like that, he’s not even interested_ – but the door had already slammed behind him and the patrons had all turned back to their own affairs. The loud sound of the Lowtown tavern at night filled her ears.

 _That little shite._ _Any other night._ Any other night and it would’ve been fine. She would’ve quipped something about men and their fighting, would’ve calmed them down with another joke. Or she would’ve even watched them, eager to see who would come out on top. But this night she had fought monsters. Seen horror, skewered a man without even thinking.

And her brother couldn’t even behave. Couldn’t treat a fellow survivor of Ostagar, a fellow ferelden with respect. Couldn’t shut his bloody mouth and calm his flaming tits.

She couldn’t calm him down. She felt sick, powerless. She hadn’t known Martin for long, but there was something about him – he was worth knowing. She wouldn’t say no to a tumble, but he was worth more than that. He could be a friend. He _understood_.

Carver refused to understand. Refused to give her this one little thing as he both looked to her and cursed her for every decision she’d made in her whole life and would have to keep on making. It was her responsibility.

That little elf girl. The other children. She couldn’t stop seeing the little pieces, the little remains, and she couldn’t get the image out of her head of little Bethany amongst those ruins. Even little Carver.

She wanted to cry, but she settled for emptying her mug. She reached over and took Carver’s still mostly full mug and downed it too.

She was shocked out of her thoughts by Martin falling heavily into his chair. He still glared at the door while Varric was saying something.

“Give him time,” Varric soothed. “Hell, he didn’t try to fight me, but I’m pretty sure Junior wanted to put his fist in my face too when we first met.” She found a little part of her aching heart warmed by the roguish dwarf. _A good friend._

“He’s an arse,” Martin replied, still fuming. “I don’t think I have seen him yet not be a little bastard. How he could treat his own sister like that - “

“He’s _my brother_ ,” Hawke said quietly.

Martin’s jaw snapped shut.

“Hmmf,” Varric snorted. “Family. I know what it’s like to have a brother like Junior. I’m not saying I don’t have a little sympathy for the kid, being a younger brother myself. But damn if he doesn’t sometimes remind me of Bartrand.”

Martin kept his eyes on her for a moment as if in question. Then they turned to Varric. “Your brother?” He asked.

Varric nodded amicably. “Trust me, you wouldn’t believe it if you met him. He’s charmless, rude, properly bearded and not nearly as handsome as yours truly.” He grinned. “Though he’s got a nose for coin, I’ll give him that.”

“Then there’s one thing you two have in common,” Hawke offered quietly, trying to smile but failing.

“That we do, that we do. Though like everything else, my nose is better.”

“Was it his nose or yours,” Martin asked, tension leaving him as he sipped from his mug. “That led you to this insane notion of a Deep Roads expedition?”

“Bahh,” Varric took a swig and waved a hand dismissively. “That would be my esteemed brother. He’s practically crazy over the idea, so whatever info he’s picked up’s got him hopping. He hasn’t stooped to sharing his source with me.”

“And why,” Martin asked, turning to her. “Are you and Carver roped into this? Does it not sound insane? The Deep Roads are perhaps the most dangerous place in all of Thedas.”

“Because they know a good deal when they hear one,” Varric interjected. “Besides, in case you hadn’t noticed we just had a Blight. Darkspawn on the surface, means less down below. It’s the best time for this.”

Martin shook his head emphatically, an intensity to his voice and movements. “Have you ever been there? Darkspawn are not a threat to take lightly, and the Deep Roads is their home.”

“No, I’m a surfacer born and raised, but Bartrand’s spent some time below ground. Trouble is, he isn’t much of a fighter – and the only ones I know of who fought and survived Darkspawn are the wardens,” he stuck his thumb meaningfully at Hawke. “And Hawke and Junior.” He squinted at Martin over his mug. “And there ain’t now Wardens in Kirkwall. Speaking of… you fought in the Blight, right Mallet?”

“If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking Varric,” Hawke interjected. “I already offered him a place.”

“Is that so?” Varric asked, seemingly unsurprised. “We don’t need more partners, if that’s what you offered. But I’m sure I could convince Bartrand to hire him on. Maker knows we need more experience.”

Martin held his hands up. “I still think this expedition is madness. What could you possibly find worth braving the Deep Roads?”

Varric chuckled. “A fortune, Mallet. A fortune.”

Martin grimaced dubiously and took another drink.

 _Is it madness?_ Hawke thought. _Diving into the depths where the Blight is from? Maker knows I never want to see another darkspawn._ She shivered and took another drink.

She allowed herself to sink into brooding – on her brother, on the darkspawn, on the expedition, on their life in Lowtown… on to the cheery beauty that had been her sister. She’d been dead for over a year now and still Hawke found herself looking for her when she woke up some mornings. Mother tried to be strong for her and Carver but Hawke could sense her sadness. The way she single-mindedly sent letter after letter to the Viscount’s, petitioning for the old Amell estate…

 _Maker bless her. She shouldn’t have had to watch Bethany die. Carver neither._ _I don’t think I’ve seen him well and truly smile since._

Hawke tipped her mug back to her lips again only to find it empty. She grabbed for the pitcher at the center of the table and poured another. Drank.

She was vaguely aware of Martin and Varric’s ongoing conversation, his questions about Bartrand, the expedition, Kirkwall, work…

She took another drink. And another.

_I should’ve protected her. Carver knows. Mother knows. I should’ve protected her._

Images of children flitted through her mind, of Bethany smiling as she drew water from the well.

Her face twisted in horror deep in the black, bones and rats surrounding her.

Hawke kept drinking, isolated from her friends.


	8. VII: Unpaid Offers, Unfinished Business

**VII: Unpaid Offers, Unfinished Business**

Aveline Vallen stood in Lowtown’s Southern Market, her feet parted, her shoulders relaxed. The warmth of the sun shone onto her freckled face, driving down her neck and back to absolve her entire being of tension. Even here, in Kirkwall, there was beauty. _The sun touches all,_ she thought sadly. _Wesley would have said that, or the like. He always had a way with words. Now Wesley is gone, yet the sun still shines._

A small part of her felt guilt for that enjoyment, for the momentary respite from the stresses of life in the Kirkwall guard that she had thrown herself into. It had always been her way of grieving to commit all to a task worthy of completion, and protecting her new home was the most worthy cause available to her.

That and her friends. She owed so much to the Hawkes, to Leandra and her daughter. They had brought her out of the wilderness, had fought by her side to escape the Blight. They had sacrificed of themselves to bring her into the city, and Leandra had even offered her a place at their home.

Thankfully that last gift had not been needed long, for Gamlen’s small house could barely fit what was left of the Hawkes and Amells without adding the last of the Vallens to the hearth. She still came to visit as often as she could, for friends as worthy as the Hawkes are a rare thing to come by. _They are as a second family to me, and I will forever cherish them_. _Even Carver._

And now she needed their help again. There was shame in it to even ask after all they had already done. She could never repay them for what they had done so far, yet she had to ask for more.

Perhaps it would all work out. Perhaps there would be a bounty in it, some coin downpayment on her eternal debt. _Not from the Captain at any rate, he’s_ _not_ _one to let go of coin. If I have to, I will appeal to the Seneschal. The Hawkes deserve that much at least._

With that thought she pushed her way through the thinning crowd, nodding to a guardsman as she passed him.

“Ho, Sergeant!” The man called, taking her arm and stopping her. “Think you might cover the end of my shift? Linde said she’d give me a rate special if I showed up before dark.”

Aveline shook her head at the man. Dark eyes and a Tevene nose poked out beneath the brim of his helmet. “Not today, Tress. I have a matter to handle.”

The guardsman shrugged. “’A matter,’ she says. Ta for nothin’, Sarge. I’m doomed to dance in half of Kirkwall’s seed by the time I get to her. Ah well, always the morrow.”

“A commendable attitude,” Aveline answered blithely before nodding and continuing on her way.

The market was oddly quiet as the merchants only occasionally hawked their wares. Some were already beginning to pack up their stalls for the night as the world around faded into orange, soon to be dusk, then black. The merchants would store their goods, the beggars would turn in for the night, while the rest of Lowtown would head for the nearest tavern and drink away the black ‘till the sun shone once again.

Aveline never understood their routine, these Kirkwallers. Working for their coin alone, sometimes their families, then burning it all every night on alcohol or harlots. _I have my own routine, true, but I serve a higher call. I served Ferelden, and now I serve Kirkwall. For better or for worse. Someone has to look out for everybody else._

It took some time, but at last she found herself at the stained doorstep of the Hanged Man. Its dangling mascot repulsed her even as she pushed open the door. She was barraged as she entered, by both the loud clamor of the lively tavern ( _that will only get livelier as the night wanes on_ ) and the sour stench that seemed to always cling to the place. She couldn’t understand why Hawke loved it so much. _Though she did not spend so much time here before she met Varric. He is certainly vocal in his appreciation for it._

Her gaze flicked to each side of the tavern, roaming across the varied patrons who filled the dirty tables. She was sure she had arrested at least two of them at one time or another. She was also sure that she would come to know more of them in the future as she escorted them to the city jail.

Finally she saw them. Seated near the back as usual, though in a different table than normal. She moved towards the card playing trio of the siblings Hawke and Varric. Hawke was even more animated than usual, her loud voice if not her words carrying through the din towards Aveline as Hawke threw down her cards.

As the Sergeant drew closer she realized that the man she had thought was Carver was in fact not – instead a different, more battered face over a battered half-plate raised his eyes to meet hers. He tossed his cards on the table and stood with an outright smile. “Sergeant!” He called in a quiet voice she somehow heard. “Join us. I believe I owe you a drink.”

Hawke, who was seated facing away from her turned then. “Aveline!” She shouted, her face flushed. “It’s always good for the Guard to show a strong face here at the Hanged Man.”

“In uniform no less,” Varric grinned slyly, showing his cards and dragging the meager pot to his side of the table.

The man, who she now realized was familiar, pulled up a chair for her from an adjoining table.

As she sat Varric continued. “You ought to be more considerate Aveline. I know at least four people are cowering under their tables right now for fear of the Guard coming for them. Bet you old Graham’s even soiled his trousers.”

“Good,” Aveline replied smoothly. “Lawbreakers should fear the law. It means I’m doing its job.”

Varric made a show of ducking his head beneath the table. “Did I say four? I meant five. Please, great guardsman, spare us your wrath!”

Hawke guffawed loudly. Aveline glanced to her. _Maker, in her cups again?_ Concern filled her. _This early?_ She silenced the thought. _I will not judge her._

As Aveline sat she noticed the hammers tied to the familiar man’s hip she finally recognized him.

“I remember you,” she said.

He nodded, shouted to Nora for another round (which was promptly filled to Aveline’s surprise) and offered his hand. “Martin,” he said. “When last we met I did not have the opportunity for a proper introduction.”

Varric’s eyes glistened intently as he leaned forward in his seat. “I sense a story here. Come on, don’t keep us in suspense.”

“No indeed!” Echoed Hawke as she took another drink.

Something about the way Varric leaned forward, or perhaps the greed in his eyes irked Aveline. He was a strange dwarf, one without beard who told constant tales of others whenever he could get a crowd worked up. She never had seen him outside the Hanged Man. Come to think of it, she had never seen him without Hawke. _He doesn’t sit right with me._

Aveline shrugged through her thoughts. “Some of the guard took issue with another ferelden seeking refuge in Kirkwall. Just the boys being rowdy. A little talking to from their Sergeant set them right.”

“Might have just been a little talking to for you,” Martin said, also pausing to take a deep drag from his tankard. “But for me it was life and death. Them as well now that I think on it.”

“Oh ho!” Varric shouted. “If that was a story, I’d title It ‘The Adventures of Aveline – how she scared the shit out of some people for the three thousandth time.’”

“Oh come now, Varric,” Hawke cut in, swatting his arm. “No one will believe that. Aveline’s one cute, huggable little bear. Back in Ferelden she was famous far and wide for her delightful smile and curvaceous legs.”

Varric made a face. “You were doing good there Hawke - ‘till _curvaceous_. That's not the adjective I would’ve used. Or anyone else with eyes.”

_Put that uniform to work_ , Aveline thought, giving Varric her best Sergeant’s glare. “And what word would a tavern fly like you use to describe me?”

Varric’s only immediate response was his typical carefree grin, though this time he had the decency to hide it partially under the brim of his mug. He wasn’t easily intimidated, Aveline gave him that.

“Chiseled. Maybe granite or marble. Certainly hard as stone. Ever considered going to Orzammer? I bet they’d just worship your strong stone toes as you passed over the blessed stone of their ancestors. They’d be like to put a statue up of you on the spot.”

Hawked tittered loudly. “Now who’s going too far with description?”

“’Those who cannot write, critique.’” Varric quoted smartly.

“Does that mean you cannot write?” Aveline asked, finding herself slipping into the banter despite her misgivings about the dwarf.

She’s got you there!” Hawke pounded her mug on the table.

“Traitor!” Varric gasped in mock indignation. “Siding against me for the guard, are you? Won’t anyone protect a decent Maker-fearing dwarf from abuse by the local guardswoman?”

Martin leaned back in his chair. “Nay, Varric. Looks to be you are all done in.”

“Not so fast,” Hawke interjected. “I change my mind. I will protect this dwarf from belittlement…” she hiccupped loudly, belched, and laughed uproariously. “Ha! Belittlement!”

Martin, Varric, and even Aveline chuckled at that. “I’ll give you that one, Hawke,” Varric chortled between sips of drink.

“That said,” Aveline cut in as the banter seemed to lose its steam. “I didn’t come here without purpose, Hawke.”

Before she could explain said purpose Varric interrupted again. “Well, I knew you cared Aveline, but I wasn’t sure you wanted to make it official – “

Annoyance flared through her but she suppressed it. _Andraste preserve me._ “I may have some work for you, Hawke. Your brother too.” She continued as if Varric hadn’t spoken at all. He at least had the decency to shut up as soon as she interrupted his interruption.

Hawke stopped drinking mid gulp to set her mug down haphazardly on the table. She tried as professional a face as she could muster through flushed cheeks and glazed eyes. “By all means, Guardswoman,” she managed with only the subtlest of slurs. “You have my _utmost_ attention.”

_I sincerely doubt that. But this is my night off, so it’s now or next week._ “I’ve heard word from some informants of a fugitive hiding out in the wilds, near-to Sundermount. It’s unwise to venture so far alone, and Captain Jeven refuses me a patrol. I’d like to hire you.”

Hawke cocked her head curiously. “Captain Jeven? What happened to Ewald?”

Varric snorted. “What rock have you been under, Hawke? Ewald was fished out of the canals not even a fortnight ago. The Viscount hasn’t put up a replacement yet, only a temporary guy.”

“Captain Jeven.” Martin supplied.

“Right, Jeven. I tell you, it’s been a real shit show down at the Merchant’s Guild. Us second sons had quite a pickle figuring out who’s pocket to line now that…” Varric trailed off as he glanced the glare Aveline was throwing his way. “We’re all in mourning. It’s awful. Chantry’s just packed with well wishers.”

Hawke took hold of her mug. “I met Ewald once. Good man from what I saw.” She saluted with her drink before taking a swig. “And to answer your question, Varric, it wasn’t a rock but a bottle. You know damn well I’ve been here since that shite you got us into down below Darktown. Maker have mercy.”

“Shit Hawke,” Varric response sounded genuinely regretful. “How many times do I gotta say I’m sorry – “

Unwilling to allow another conversation to drown out the one she needed to finish with Hawke, Aveline interrupted the budding argument. “Are you willing Hawke?”

Hawke turned fully towards Aveline again. “This isn’t some kid sticker you’d have us chase, right?” She shivered visibly. “I don’t think I can handle any more skulls smaller than my fist this month.”

Aveline took in a breath to ask her what she meant before she caught Martin staring pointedly at her. He shook his head, as if to say “don’t ask.”

So she didn’t. “No. Just a no good thief who’s managed to steal quite a bit from Darktown and the Alienage. Jumps people in alleys, that sort of thing.” When she saw the greedy look in Varric’s eye she added “No bounty. Only what I can persuade the Seneschal to give you. The folks this man’s stolen from don’t have anything else to give.”

Hawke nodded at that, then abruptly stopped as if remembering something. “Wait, did you say he’s hiding out near Sundermount?”

Aveline nodded, taken aback. “We’ll have to search the old smuggler caves. Some run all the way down to the Wounded Coast. Why?”

Hawke grimaced. Without answering Aveline she pushed her mug across the table. “Then that’s it for me tonight. Can we head out on the morrow, Aveline?”

Aveline nodded again, head suddenly filling with second thoughts _. I could take the patrol down the road to the coast, take a detour…_

“You heard the lady, can’t promise any coin, but if either of you wants to tag along…”

Martin stood and made a show of stretching. “I will come along, coin or no. I could use a breath of sea air. Unpolluted by Kirkwall.”

Varric only grinned. “Bianca could use some trouble. She’s been getting soft with all this booze, I tell you.”

“Don’t be too trigger happy shorty,” Hawke said soberly. “Wouldn’t want to piss on the Dalish we’re going to visit. Carver and I have been putting it off too long now. Got unfinished business, now for both Aveline and… an old friend.”

  



	9. VIII: Ema’elan

**VII: Ema’elan**

Carver cursed.

He’d been cursing all morning, now that he thought on it. Damn that blasted Witch, damn the bleeding cold, damn his bloody hangover, damn his now mud-filled boot, damn any elf who thought these woods were habitable, and damn the tevinters for the gods damn awful highway that managed to not only be indispensable for finding their way up through the foothills outside Kirkwall, but to also drive him mad as seemingly every other Maker-damned stone seemed to either come loose or sink down into the sludge under Carver’s ironshot boots.

It only got worse when they found themselves leaving the road at Martin’s say so, as the blighter knelt down and looked at some old hoofprints in the mud. He eyed them carefully before gesturing at a trail heading westwards around the base of the mountain. “Halla,” he’d said. “Either that or their twin.”

“What, you Dalish now under that plate?” Carver had sneered. “Frolic much when you were out pasting Darkspawn did you?”

Martin had shot up and tackled Carver bodily without reply. Carver had been all to eager to fight the man, finally having found an outlet for his damnation before Nell had stuck her bloody nose in their midst. “Stop. Next one throws a punch gets three from _me_.”

Carver had been only mildly surprised when Martin had pulled short at the same time he did. _Course he would. Sister’s got him all around her little finger, just like everybody._ He shoved that thought down even as he shoved his fellow ferelden off him.

They continued without incident for some time, though the path was even harder than the highway had been, all the while the _(maker damned)_ clouds in the _(maker damned)_ sky finally saw fit to spew their _(maker damned)_ contents down on the party as they dug their way through the wooded wilderness.

Aveline, Martin, and Nell all ignored the sudden downpour, only pulling their cloaks over their heads to show they even noticed the rain. Varric cursed nearly as loudly as Carver, though only half as often as him even as the dwarf found himself knee deep in muck.

“Andraste piss on it all,” Carver barked angrily as he was shaken out of his reverie by stumbling nearly face first into the muddy earth before him. His boot, which had sunk a handspan down into a particularly deep mudhole, refused to raise with his leg as he tried to step. Feeling down with his hands, he cursed again as he found the root his foot had gotten tangled up under. As he pulled it up he heard Varric cackle through the rain.

“Hey Junior, just be grateful that we aren’t back in Darktown,” he called from a few paces behind. “You’d be hand and thigh deep in shit as well as dirt, were we still there.”

“Shut your bloody damned hole, Varric!”

Rather than seem irritated at yet another fight breaking out in their midst, Nell actually seemed to enjoy it. _Probably enjoying me with my hands in muck._ “You two are loud enough to wake the dead,” she observed, raising her voice to dwarf even them. “I sure hope there aren’t any brigands around to ambush us.”

“Keep your voice down, Hawke,” Martin hushed emphatically. “Though I have no hope of our passage going completely unnoticed, perhaps we might not advertise our _exact_ location?”

“At least we could ask bandits for directions,” muttered Aveline dryly.

“In your case,” Varric replied, “More like ‘beat into them a sense of right and wrong’ for directions.”

“Well,” Hawke mused. “I sure hope they’d have the sense of right and left _before_ the beating at least.”

Carver flicked his hands forward, throwing mud and grime both downwards and, admittedly, towards Nell. She stuck her tongue out at him and turned on her heel.

She only made two steps before a bow emerged from behind a tree ten paces in front of her. Carver saw it just as she did and made to draw his sword.

“Do not attempt it, _Shemlen_ ,” A voice called from behind, back and to his left. Its sound was musical, though its tone disdainful. Carver couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. _Half the time you can’t with elves._ “Even without your shouting the forest has noted your passage.”

They had all frozen in place – Carver tried as casually as possible to look about for more archers but couldn’t see anything through rain-soaked trees.. Only the bow before them was visible, though it’s wielder remained shrouded in branches.

Nell clapped her hands together in as much excitement as frustration. “Wonderful. We were looking for a clan of Dalish rumored to be up in these hills. Would you be so kind as to provide us with directions to their camp?”

The voice behind them spoke again. This time Carver was _pretty_ sure it was a woman. “We have only arrows for your kind. Go back to your city. We shall not warn you again if you continue down this path.”

“Path?” Varric cracked loudly. “This? A Path? Could’ve fooled me.”

A different voice, similarly musical spoke from Carver’s right. He squinted, trying to make out its owner but couldn’t. “But Variel, could these not be -”

Before the new voice could finish the thought an arrow loosed from behind, embedding itself into the earth painfully close to Carver’s still sunken leg.

“ _Telahna_ _Terath!”_ Barked the voice behind. “Leave this place, _Shem_ , and never return. The next arrow will strike true.”

Carver was just working out how quickly he could draw his blade when Martin of all people spoke up.

“ _Sul’ema Atish’an,_ ” he called over his shoulder to the angry leader behind them. He shoved one hand into a pocket on his thigh, withdrawing what looked like a small hunk of wood. “We would speak with your Keeper - “

“ _Telahna_!” the voice barked again and Martin immediately stilled, his hand still holding whatever it was. “Stolen words or stolen trinkets mean nothing to us. We - “

The bow in front of them suddenly lowered, and a lithe form moved with it into sight. It was a small elf with close shorn dark hair and a domineering face tattoo that cut across his forehead and down both sides of his face. “Peace, Variel. You have always judged too quickly.” The male elf stepped forward towards Martin, unmindful of Aveline or Nell. The elf held out his hand to Martin, who gave him the thing. _Some kind of carving, looks like._

The elf turned it over in his hands, muttering softly to himself. “It couldn’t be...”

He looked up to Martin. “Where did you get this, human?”

Martin, though not a tall man positively towered over the elf. “It was given to me. I was told other Dalish would recognize it for what it was.”

The elf nodded, looking back to the wood before handing it back. “Those words would have been gift enough. There are not many humans to have been honored by one of the People as you have.”

“Sileal!” Shouted the voice behind. “You cannot accept this, they - “

The elf merely glanced back over Carver’s shoulder, towards the voice. The protests immediately died out, and the elf looked back to Martin. “What do you seek amongst the Dalish? Friend or not to one of the People, rare is the human to visit where our _aravels_ rest.”

This time it was Nell to speak up. “We have a delivery. We were told to bring this,” she dug in her shirt for the strangely preserved wormwood amulet that Flemeth had given them… nearly two years ago now. Not long after Bethany…

‘ _Mother!’ She cried, stepping forward and pushing her back. Carver was on his back foot, parrying a strike from a particularly twisted blade. He knew, with that cry, heard the stomping and felt the sheer presence of the Ogre._

_He tried to turn, kicked forward desperately to dislodge his own attacker. **Bethany!**_

Carver sank deeper into that horrible moment, and so missed when the elf gasped or the hurried step back he took at the sight of Flemeth’s trinket.

He was snapped back to the world by the elf’s words. “I understand. The Keeper told us of your coming. Come, we will guide you to our camp.”

All dissension from the other elves seemed to completely die then. Carver could _feel_ the bows lowering as the Dalish apparently decided to follow the lead of the male elf, Sileal. _Well, they’re listening at least. I’d feel a lot better if they showed themselves._

Their march through the wilds eased up after that – the Dalish stoically lead them over the worst of the terrain at a speed that made their trek up the Highway seem a snails crawl.

It wasn’t long before the trees opened before them into a basin nudged up right against the foot of Sundermount. Several wheeled wagons with sails edged the clearing, the cloth furled against the now dying rain. Several dozen elves of all ages meandered about – a cluster of children surrounded an older elf as he instructed, a couple elves busied themselves cleaning a deer carcass; many more moved about in hushed groups of twos and threes, casting wary looks towards the strangers that now graced their camp.

Carver could feel their wariness down to his bones.

Martin mumbled something unintelligible before moving up alongside Sileal. “Hunter, where are your halla?”

Sileal’s gaze whipped to Martin, though Carver couldn’t tell if it was in surprise or anger. “They are gone,” he answered levelly.

Martin hummed in response, now taking in the rest of the camp.

Varric bundled up to Martin and Carver turned away, looking to the center of the camp. The direction they were headed.

A canopy hung from another araval, no bigger but more brightly painted than the rest. Carver could make out a female elf reclined beneath it in fur robes that didn’t resemble their guide’s more utilitarian garb. She looked up to them as they approached and beckoned.

Contrarily Sileal held his arm across them, blocking their path. “You, _ema’elan_ ,” he said, gesturing to Nell. He then looked pointedly to Martin. “And you, share your gifts. Though I did not ask, you can expect the Keeper to question how you received them.”

Martin inclined his head stiffly, and both he and Nell moved to the woman Carver presumed was the Keeper. She stood as they approached.

“And what are we supposed to bloody do,” Carver muttered under his breath, squatting in the grass. Even the Dalish deferred to Nell, and now even Martin. _At least the rain’s stopped. For all the good that does me, soaked as I am._

He nearly fell over when a voice answered him. Sileal, the hunter. “I suppose it’s too much to ask for a quickling to have patience?”

Varric laughed, Aveline crouched, and Carver fumed.

[=]

The elderly Keeper stood as they approached, ancient sea-green eyes scrutinizing them from within her lined face.

_Lined by age, and by tattoos,_ Hawke mused nervously. _At least hers are lighter than most of the Dalish. Almost pretty._ She looked to be in her forties but Hawke had the nagging suspicion she was much, much older. In her hands she grasped a staff, and though she stood as a thin reed in the wind she held a gravitas of years of experience and strength.

For one brief moment, if Hawke closed her eyes she could almost picture her father standing before them and not an old elf.

The Keeper only spared Martin a glance before turning her full gaze to Hawke.

“ _Andaran atish’an ema’elan_ ,” the music of her voice tickled Hawke’s ears. “I am Keeper Marethari. I have seen your coming in my dreams.”

“You have?” Hawke asked, unable to control herself.

Marethari nodded. “ _Asha’bellanar_ told of your coming. Tasked Clan Sabrae to await your arrival. And your gift.”

Hawke floundered a moment, nervous beyond belief, struggling to retrieve Flemeth’s wormwood. Before she could, Martin interrupted.

“Yours is Clan Sabrae, Keeper?”

The Keeper turned now to Martin, eyes narrowing. “It is, child. What of it?”

Hawke managed to withdraw Flemeth’s talisman even as Martin struggled to retrieve his own. He held his carved relief to the Keeper, and she took it gingerly in her hands.

She passed it between her fingers, eyes widening noticeably. “Sylaise. Strange...” she looked up at Martin again, still running her fingers reverently over the wooden detail. “You claim this was given to you.”

Martin nodded, strangely timid. “I was given words to say as well. _Sul’ema Atish’an.”_

The Keeper’s face turned impassive. “Could you name who gave this to you?”

“Mahariel, of Clan Sabrae.”

The Keeper closed her eyes and clutched the relief to her chest tightly. “Word had carried of her death, then triumph despite. Is our daughter well?”

“I left her side not two months past. She was hale and whole.”

The Keeper exhaled sharply through her nose, handing back the talisman before opening her eyes. “I thank you for the news, child. I was told you bore a gift. I did not imagine you held one so precious. You have eased my heart.”

Martin inclined his head, seemingly at a loss for words.

The Keeper turned to Hawke. “We have a task before us, _ema’elan_ ,” gestured pointedly at the wormwood talisman Hawke now clutched in her hands. “ _Asha’bellanar_ should not be kept waiting further. First I would know your name.” She seemed to consider for half a heartbeat. “Both of your names.”

“I am Nell Hawke,” she answered, emboldened by Martin’s gift. She whispered a silent prayer to the Maker in thanks for his apparent friendship with the Dalish. She had been dreading this day ever since she first grasped Flemeth’s damn talisman.

“Martin,” Martin intoned quietly.

“Of Highever,” Hawke added, earning a glare from Martin.

“I am glad to meet you both,” the Keeper replied. “Let me look upon you, _ema’elan_ ,” she said before suddenly leaning in, taking Hawke’s shoulders in her hands and locking eyes with her.

Hawke lowered her eyes in the scrutiny, disconcerted. Her face flushed. She felt supremely small under the Marethari’s intense gaze.

The Keeper released her shoulders and stepped back, a look of appreciation on her face. “There is truth in your face. A rare thing for a human.” Her eyes flashed with an emotion Hawke couldn’t identify before she continued. “Tell me, how did this burden fall to you, child?”

_Bethany’s form, crushed below her. Wesley, choking on his own blighted blood. A witch, moments ago a dragon, speaking with unfeigned sympathy._

She shook off the memory as bile built in her throat. She swallowed heavily. “The owner of this token saved us from the Blight. In return, she demanded we deliver it to you here.” Nervousness ate at her suddenly. “We are a bit late, I suppose.”

The Keeper shook her head gravely. “You will do as was bid. You are neither late nor early. However, I wish you had come sooner,” her eyes crinkled slightly at that.

_Maker above, is she joking?_ “Yes, well, indentured servitude tends to keep one from fulfilling any obligations save one.”

The Keeper nodded sadly at that. “I honor you for coming despite your hardship. However, your debt is not fulfilled yet. The talisman must be taken to an altar, here near the peak of Sundermount, and be given a Dalish rite for the departed.”

Hawke felt trepidation building in her gut. “And how am I supposed to do that? I don’t know Dalish rituals.”

“I offer you my First both to guide you to the altar and to perform the ritual.”

“’First?’” Hawke asked, confused.

“Her apprentice.” Martin explained.

“Oh, well that makes sense,” Hawke replied, embarrassed.

“However,” the Keeper interrupted gravely. “I have one condition for her assistance.”

The trepidation surged up her gut and into the back of her throat. Hawke barely managed to choke it back down. “And what might that be?” She asked.

“That you - “ she looked pointedly towards Martin, “both of you, shall take her back with you to Kirkwall. I have already been in contact with the Hahren of the Alienage – she but needs to be escorted to her new home.”

“Well that’s confusing,” Hawke mumbled. “Isn’t she your apprentice? Don’t you need her?”

The Keeper’s expression remained stoic, save for a quick glance at her hands. “Yes. But she has chosen a different path. If you wish to know more, speak with her. I would prefer not to discuss anymore of our clan’s affairs.”

_Probably just stepped in it._ “I didn’t mean to pry,” Hawke assured Maretheri, hands placating. “Just point us to her and we’ll get it done.”

The Keeper nodded once more, finally. “ _Ma nuvenin._ ” She gestured to the westernmost gap in the land ships. There a small trail led upwards and out of sight through the trees, towards the mountain. “She is camped a short ways up the path. She is expecting you. May the Dread Wolf never catch your scent.” The Keeper clasped her hands together, bowed slightly, then turned and headed into her land ship.

They stood a moment in silence, thinking.

“So...” Hawke asked, trailing off.

“Yes?” Martin answered gruffly.

“Friends with a Dalish?”

“Once.”

Hawke turned to look at him, saw the fingers of his right hand still in his pocket. Undoubtedly still clutching the carving. He didn’t look back at her, glazed eyes still turned to where the Keeper had stood.

_Whatever she was, it pains him._

Instead of interrogating him further, Hawke slapped his shoulder hard. “Appreciate you coming out with us, Martin. When we get back, I’ll buy you a pint.”

Martin snapped back to reality at the contact and turned a tired smile at her. “Thank you.”

The sound of her name behind her nearly made her jump out of her skin. Instead, Hawke turned to see the rest of their group stepping up – Aveline in the lead.

“So, is that it then?” The guardswoman asked. “Did she happen to know where our thief might be?”

_What?_ Her confusion must have shown on her face because Varric laughed. “I don’t think she remembered to ask, Aveline.”

Aveline let loose a long suffering sigh. “I don’t suppose we could knock on her carriage?”

“Disturbing the Keeper again would be unwise,” Martin interjected, glancing around.

“It may not be wise, but it must be done. The thief _must_ be found.”

“I do not think the Clan will allow it.”

Strangely enough it was Carver who spoke next, his eyes darting across the camp filled with equal parts irritation and nervousness. Every so often his hand twitched ever so slightly towards the blade at his back. “Let’s just get us gone. They’re only glaring now, but we do anything they don’t like and its arrows for the lot of us - “ he shot a venomous glance to Aveline. “Guard or no.”

_Strange,_ Hawke thought, noting an underlying ire in that look. “Besides,” Hawke said helpfully, ignoring whatever lay between Aveline and Carver right then ( _When’s Carver not fighting with someone_ ). “We have to help out the Keeper’s First with some rite with the… thing.”

“You and your ‘helping,’” Carver snarled. He tensed at his outburst, checked the area about him as if angry elves were about to tear him limb from limb. “You volunteer us for this too? These elves don’t _want_ our help. We need to go _now._ ”

Even Varric seemed hesitant. “I’m getting that vibe too, Hawke. I really think we should - “

Hawke silenced him with a look. Her eyes then turned to Carver, drilling into him, only flicking to Aveline for a moment.

“ _ **No,**_ ” she ordered with all the iron she could bear. “This is part of the _deal_. End of discussion.”

Carver blanched, nodded meekly and looked at his boots. Even Aveline paled.

“To the First then,” answered Aveline after a moment.

She couldn’t admit it out loud but Hawke shared her brother’s reservations. _These elves are a twitch away from turning us into pin_ _cushions._ _But none of them can turn into a dragon._ She shivered at the thought of Flemeth’s wrath. She bore it and lead the way to the path up the mountain, enduring the dark looks from the clan about them. Most disturbing to Hawke were the looks of utter contemptuous hate the children directed their way. They lanced at Hawke’s already tender, too recently broken heart.

The packed earth of the narrow trail loamed pleasantly beneath her boots as they hiked up the hill, turning with the path behind several boulders. As soon as the camp was out of sight, Hawke released a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

And immediately bit back her next one. What lay before them drew a shocked intake of breath from Varric and stunned silence from everyone else.

Gone was the desolate landscape of browned forest filled with muck and stubby shrubbery. The mountainside before them was practically verdant, pale grass wisping beneath lines of emerald trees. There was an order to them, a pattern of placement that belied any thought of natural growth. It was as if they had stepped into another world, into the royal forest of some ancient king.

Varric’s awed “Shit” drew Hawke from her wonder. She pushed on, leading their merry procession underneath the cover of the trees. There was a wondrous sense of permanence to the place that slowed their earlier hurried hike. Now, they stepped with unconscious reverence.

_I wonder why the Dalish don’t camp here? It’s a far cry from the gloom of the Southern March._ A sudden realization came to her as the trees bowed and bent in the breeze above her. _They’re guarding this. What is this place?_

They marched on, Hawke’s thoughts seeming to wisp through the trees ahead.


	10. IX: Pale Graves

**IX: Pale Graves**

First to Keeper Marethari, Merrill Sabrae, sat alone amongst the tree graves of her ancestors. _No. Not First any longer._ She gasped lightly as she felt the tell-tale pressure of tears behind her eyes. She blinked several to the ground as she tried to remember her purpose.

_Not my true purpose. Well, it is part of that, but it isn’t the true of it. It is a Keeper’s job to remember, and to preserve the People. Those that lie here should rest quietly, not… they should be…_

She silenced her thoughts as she placed her hand to the earth, willed her eyes to see further even as she closed them.

The warmth of the Beyond flowed from under her eyelids, to her fingertips and through the mound to the memories of the soul beneath.

That was not exactly what they were of course – they were echoes, memories that Spirits clung to as they clustered to this sacred place in the Beyond. If only they were _true_ memories, if only the soul remained. _For We have lost so much… if only we could bring them back._

This particular ancient soul – _no, memory_ – that lay beneath her strummed with tension and pain. Anger built, a rage against its tormentor, and Merrill did her best to sooth the spirit within. She carefully warded its resting ground, doing her best to seal any attacks from beyond.

As she prodded the defenses she had willed about the now quieting memory a voice spoke behind her.

“Well, that’s something you don’t see everyday,” a harsh tone, a male lilt that was _not one of the People_. She dove forward immediately towards her staff in a panic, clutched the knotted wood as she spun on her back to face the speaker who so casually defiled Sundermount’s Pale Graves.

Four humans (two male and two female) and a _durgen’len_ of all things stood before her. Her grip tightened in alarm on her staff as she desperately tried to channel the power to defend the Graves. To the death.

Only for her concentration to be shattered at the strangeness of the people before her. Though all bore arms and armor, only the tallest human had one tentative hand on the enormous blade on his back.

The woman beside him with short hair and kind eyes slapped the big man’s hand from his weapon.

“Carver,” she spoke. “You daft tit. You scared the poor thing.” She held her hands forward, fingers splayed. “Don’t be frightened of the big tit that is my brother. He may be an ugly git but he’s a softie at heart.”

“Oh, bugger off sister,” the brother barked back angrily.

The kind sister ignored her definitely meaner brother and held a hand to the dumbstruck Merrill. Against her better judgment the elf grasped it and felt the powerful woman pull her to her feet. The sheer force of the pull almost sent the unexpecting Dalish face over heel but the human caught her, shoulders first.

“You’re a right waif thing, aren’t you?” The woman asked, not unkindly. Even though she was unsure what ‘waif’ meant Merrill nodded. She stepped back and retrieved the staff she had dropped. As she straightened with it, her confidence (though not her pride) seeped back. Merrill finally took the opportunity to size up the interlopers before her.

At the far end of the group stood a woman in heavy metal armor with flaming hair. Her face was as hard and angled as the metal she wore, though the look she gave Merrill wasn’t such. Her bare arms and strong jaw demonstrated her obvious experience in the use of the sword at her side and the shield at her back. Those muscled limbs crossed her chest at Merrill’s scrutiny, prompting the nervous elf to move on.

To her left and far below her stood the _durgen’len_ , who smiled pleasantly and winked at her. She glanced briefly at the strange weapon on his back, wondering as to what it was, but found herself quickly distracted. His lack of beard surprised Merrill until she noticed the exposed fur poking out his open jacket. _Perhaps it fell?_

Next to him and somewhat behind was the strangest man of the bunch, his eyes intent on her. He bore bits of armor scattered about his person, though his chest piece certainly was not scattered (even though by its marking something had tried to scatter it in the past). The scars on his face matched those on his armor. He regarded her without expression.

The kind woman stood beside him and in front. To Merrill she was the most beautiful human she’d ever seen. Her dark hair was cropped close to her head, and she wore leather armor strapped underneath a thick leather jacket. All of the rest of her paled in comparison to her pretty blue eyes. Yes, of the eleven humans Merrill had ever seen, the short haired kind woman was the prettiest by far.

Finally, to her side and a step behind her stood her large brother. He had gargantuan arms that dwarfed any of the People’s and a bigger sword to match. He had a bitter look in his eyes that he thankfully directed towards his sister.

Now that she had calmed Merrill had the time to think. These could not be attackers. There had been no sign, magical or otherwise, of distress from the camp. _The Keeper would have warned me._ Then it hit her.

“Are you the ones the Keeper told me about?” She blurted, immediately blushing and losing her confidence. “Oh wait, I’m sorry. I’ve been alone here so long, I didn’t mean to be rude! My name’s Merrill, what’s yours?” A sudden fear took hold of her as the group looked at her strangely. “Unless it’s rude to ask a human’s name. Is it? Rude to ask?” _Shut up Merrill._ “I’m sorry. When I get nervous I ramble… I’m sorry for rambling. And being rude.”

Silenced pervaded for a moment. Merrill’s palms itched. Then the sister and _durgen’len_ laughed.

Merrill gripped her staff tighter, dropping her head in shame as her face burnt with unimaginable heat.

The sister noticed and stifled her laughter. “Chin up, girl. We aren’t laughing _at_ you.”

“It’s just… we’re surprised. You’re the only one here who hasn’t acted like we’re nug shit on the boot. So to speak,” the _durgen’len_ added.

The sister nodded. “Bit of a shock to find such a daisy just a hike away from people who want you dead. No offense.”

Merrill felt another shame then, a deep thing that bit into her stomach. “I understand and I’m sorry. You aren’t seeing the Dalish at our best here. We’re good people, and look out for each other.”

“Just not outsiders,” the scarred man spoke, surprising her. She nodded nervously before turning back to the beautiful sister.

The _durgen’len_ and sister sobered at that. The sister then spoke, no longer amused but still holding her kind smile. “To answer your questions Merrill, yes, I’m the _ema’elan_ , whatever that is. There isn’t any need to apologize, you haven’t been rude. In fact, I think I speak for my companions when I say you have been absolutely wonderful thus far into our brief acquaintance.” She glanced back and forth to her companions as if seeking approval, then nodded to Merrill happily.

“Hawke, you idiot,” the _durgen’len_ cut in. “You missed a question. Names! Introductions! Good thing you’ve got me to class up the crew.” He bowed smartly at the waist as Hawke grumbled toothlessly. “My name is Varric Tethras, story teller and professional younger brother.” He gestured to the strange contraption strapped to his back. “And this is my best girl, Bianca. Say hello, Bianca.” The brother snorted.

“Hello, Bianca.” Merrill replied, confused.

The tall brother groaned at that and Varric grinned. “I like you already. The battle-axe to my left is Sergeant Aveline of the Kirkwall City Guard. She may look mean, but she’s agreeable enough long as you don’t steal something or kill somebody.” Aveline bristled but said nothing.

“I’ll try not to,” Merrill said earnestly.

Varric next gestured to the scarred man beside him. “This here’s Mallet, crusher of rats and smeller of garbage. Seriously, he should rent out that nose of his. Would solve our money problems.” Mallet cast a weary look Varric’s way but otherwise said nothing.

“And the beautiful temptress leading our fine crew -”

“Oh, _Varric_ ,” the sister breathed throatily, fluttering her lashes heavily at Varric.

Varric snorted but continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “- is our fearless center, Hawke of Formerly Ferelden and now Hawke of Lowtown. Don’t try to out drink her. She wipes the floor with the best of us. Namely me.”

“I’m sure there’s enough water for all of us. There’s a stream just up the path,” Merrill said helpfully. The whole group now smiled and Hawke guffawed. Merrill’s cheeks burned for what felt like the thousandth time. _I missed something, didn’t I?_

“And last and probably least is her brother - “

“Carver,” The big man interrupted. “Carver Hawke. It’s,” he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly and looked away. Merrill thought for a moment he was blushing. “good to meet you,” he muttered to the air above her.

“Yes,” the elf nodded, praying silently that she didn’t make a further fool of herself. “I suppose it is. Good to meet you, I mean.” Remembering their purpose, she turned to Hawke. “May I see what you carry, _ema’elan_?”

Hawke bowed her head and pulled out a small token of wormwood, a token Merrill couldn’t prevent her eyes from widening at the sight of. “The Keeper spoke true,” she whispered, both awed and a little bit frightened. “We must set about your task. _Asha’bellanar_ is not one to be kept waiting.”

She steeled herself and turned, gesturing awkwardly up the path. “We must climb the mountain to her altar. There, I will perform the Rite.”

“Anything we should be aware of?” Hawke asked. “Local wildlife or whatnot.”

It took Merrill a moment to realize what Hawke was asking. “Few creatures come here, though a few more dangerous spiders nest in the caves farther up the mountain. Creators willing we won’t have to go through the caves.”

Merrill turned to lead them forward.

“Wait, wait, wait.” Varric interrupted, nearly causing Merrill to jump. “These spiders. I guess they’re of the giant type and not the little ‘oh just step on them’ type, right?”

“Before we lost them, one of the halla journeyed up the mountain.” Merrill answered, shivering at the memory. “Junar, Silael and me went to bring it home.” _White pelt, stained with blood and gore. The creatures feasted, even as Silael put an arrow into one. They turned to attack but fled when Merrill shook the stones beneath their many, many legs. There wasn’t much left of the halla to save._ “They’re very big,” she said in lieu of vocalizing her memory.

Varric seemed to understand what she didn’t say. “Shit,” he said. “Yeah, let’s stay the hell away from caves and giant spiders.”

“Now you say that,” grumbled Hawke.

No one said anything after that. They just stood in silence for a moment until Merrill just had to break it. Had to bring them back to their purpose. “Come,” she said. “I will show you the way.”

She turned and headed up her usual route up the mountain, stopping once to look over her shoulder and ensure that the group was following her. They were – it felt odd to have others following her again. _Not ignoring me, or cursing me…_

She led them through the Pale Graves, felt the awe she always felt as she walked under the trees that marked the memory of the Dales. _My people honored the dead here, honored who they were – the last more than seven hundred years ago. This was a place where those that had passed could find peace._ She thought back to the spirits she had been calming since her exile here, the one she had calmed just before meeting the strange humans and _durgen’len_. _And yet something attacks these memories. Could_ _ **It**_ _be attacking them? Could it be my fault, for talking to It?_ She shook her head, dismissing the idea. _**It**_ _is still trapped, in bonds as old as Arlathan. I have been careful. Perhaps it disturbs the resting spirits, but it is not free._

She purged her mind of _It_ , resolved to allow herself to bask in the awe she usually felt when climbing the mountain. Ancient stones set upon far more ancient stone made up the stair they now climbed, tight on the side of the mountain. A work of Arlathan, with crafts of the Dales supporting it. Though it was just a simple stair case of polished stone it always managed to lift her spirits. Especially when she recalled what wonders lay ahead.

When they had ascended the stairs they came upon the Creator’s Wall – what had undoubtedly been a fully enclosed hallway in days of old was now just a singular wall built into the side of the mountain. As she walked by it Merrill ran her fingers through the finest artworks of the Dales, all depicting the Creators in their places of rule. The winged Mythal, the sun of Elgar’nan, Andruil carving her oak. It was beautiful stone craft, though weathered with age. If only she could properly clean the stained and battered stone.

As the curved stone rounded a bend a kneeling figure came into view. Hahren Paivel, the Clan’s wizened story teller knelt at the hooded relief of Falon’Din. Merrill suddenly remembered him climbing the mountain that morning. She had tried to forget, to ignore him as he ignored her – and now he was in their path.

He turned, standing quickly as he saw her. Far quicker than was comfortable, Merrill knew, having in the past tended to his aching joints herself.

“Why do you disturb me? Have you not done enough?” Paivel demanded, eyes flashing in anger. He stood askew, obviously in pain.

“I… I…” Merrill tried to reply, but she had no words. She knew that she was shunned, even hated, but hated by Paivel? He had always been kind to her. The closest person she had ever had to a father.

She could feel her unusual procession come to a stop behind her.

“Why are we – oh…” Varric’s voiced drifted from behind her.

“And what are these _shemlen_ , your thralls?” Paivel spat. “Not enough that you desecrate this place, but you must tramp the boots of humans through as well?”

“Now you hang on a minute,” Carver spoke, stepping up behind her. Merrill shrunk away from the big man instinctively.

“Do not presume to threaten me, _shem_. There is nothing you can do to me that hasn’t already been visited upon my people a thousand times.”

“Please…” Merrill tried to interrupt, tried to explain.

“Who the bloody hell do you think you are?” Carver demanded – Merrill wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or to Paivel. “You should show more respect to your…”

“She is not mine! She is not one of us, no more. She is as much an outsider as you!”

Varric sidled up to her, tried to pull Carver back. “Let’s just all calm down now…”

“Calm, my arse,” Carver said dismissively, not turning from Paivel. Merrill looked back to her hands, tried to formulate a thought outside of sheer despair. “Listen, elf, you’re about three seconds from a fist to –

This time it was Hawke who pushed past Merrill to successfully yank her brother back. “Look, we don’t want any trouble man. Your Keeper sent us to finish some ritual or other. We’ll be out of your hair before you know it.”

Paivel looked to her with a smaller degree of disgust than he had directed towards Merrill. “Ah, so the Keeper’s unending task shall finally be complete? Good, then we can finally leave this land to the dead who inhabit it.”

Seemingly convinced that they were at the Keeper’s behest he marched forward, pushing past Merrill roughly to head down the stairs. He called back, almost as an afterthought. “May you take that witch – far, far away. Let her curse you _shemlens._ ”

She tried, Creators, she tried so very hard – but she couldn’t completely stop the tears. Her soul dripped from her eyes as she wept, what little light that remained in the world faded to black. _Even Paivel. They all hate me._

“You alright?” she dimly heard Carver say, as if from another world.

“Of course she isn’t, are you daft?” his sister chastised. “Move off – looks like a good spot over there. Let’s break.”

She felt the beautiful hand of the beautiful human slip around her shoulder, gently guide her through and out of the ruined hall and into a small clearing of stones and grass. Felt it push her down, felt it seat her on a rock. At that moment Merrill wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball and weep on that rock. Collapse within herself.

“What could she have possibly done to deserve such treatment,” she heard a woman say – Aveline. “He behaved as if she had the plague.”

“Bahh, who knows,” Varric answered. “Probably shit in the piss hole, or said the wrong “I’m sorry” to the wrong idol. You never can tell with these forest people.”

She tuned them out, looked at her hands. Perhaps if she made the whole world only her hands, she would be alright.

“Didn’t take you for a knight in shining armor, Carver,” she heard Hawke say. Couldn’t help but hear – something about her, her voice, made it impossible to ignore her.

“Bloody elf shouldn’t have been such a bloody tosser,” Carver bit back. “Someone had to knock him down.”

“The same could be said of you, most days.” came the other man, the quiet one – Mallet. “Today included.”

“You want to have at it? I’ll lay you out, Mallet. Don’t care that you’ve seen shite, seen Blight – so’ve we. I’ll beat you blue.”

“Hush, Carver,” Hawke soothed, effortlessly. “You too, Martin. Don’t ruin a good moment. I just wanted to say… knight in shining armor is a good look on you, brother.”

“Was nothing,” dismissed Carver. “There was no call for him to talk like that to her.”

Martin spoke. “I have never heard of the Dalish ever shunning their own, though I suppose it must happen. It seems odd to treat one thus for ‘choosing a different path.’”

Merrill surprised herself by interjecting, still staring at her hands. “’We’re good people. We look out for each other.’” She looked up locking eyes with Mallet. His gaze seemed to burn right through her, no longer indifferent, and she dropped her head again. “Just not today, it seems.”

“Are you ready to move?” Aveline asked, looking pointedly at her. _Creators, she is scary._

Merrill composed herself, wiped her face. Taking up her discarded staff she pushed herself up to her feet. “I am ready. It’s not much further now.”

She led them back to the exposed corridor, past the remaining visages. As they passed Falon’Din she whispered a quick prayer under her breath. _Let it all be worth it. Let me restore just this small piece of our People…_ she instinctively touched the pouch at her belt. The shard within.

The hallway opened up completely again as another set of stairs, dual crafted as before, winded up the mountainside. Below, past the occasional ruined column that edged the stairs, lay the valley beneath Sundermount. The emaciated forest, the faded Imperial Highway… if she peeked over the edge, looked down, she was sure she could see her clan encamped below.

She did not look.

Finally, they came to the entrance – the flanking columns at the top of the stairs the only remaining sign that what they were about to enter was once a grand temple. The air shimmered here, as it always did, with the ancient magic of Arlathan.

She felt its warmth, weak with age but ever present as she passed into what remained of the vestibule. Behind her she could hear the discontented mutterings of her companions.

Then, Hawke’s voice. “Ow! Cock!”

Merrill stopped, already looking. “What’s the matter?”

She turned to see the group spread out on the staircase below her – Hawke emphatically rubbing her forehead.

“You know there’s a bloody barrier here, right? Magical? I can’t move through it,” Hawke complained.

Merrill stepped back between the columns experimentally. The warmth shot through her again, but she passed unimpeded.

Mallet moved through the group, knelt at the barrier. He reached a hand forward towards the shimmering air – until it stopped. Apparently at something solid.

“Shit, that’s weird,” Varric chimed. “This always been here?”

As he spoke Carver kicked at the barrier lightly, stopped at precisely the same distance as Mallet’s hand.

“Magic,” grunted Aveline. Merrill couldn’t tell if that grunt was bad or not.

“It’s not ever stopped me… or the Keeper before…” Merrill said, confused. “Maybe it won’t let you through because you are not of the People?”

“You mean we’re not elves,” Carver grimaced sourly.

Merrill nodded, uncomfortable with his tone. Nevertheless she continued. “Yes. This was a temple, from the days of Arlathan. When Arlathan fell so did it – though not at the same time. Newer things were built on the old – we, the Keeper I mean…” she trailed off momentarily. Steeled herself. “The Keeper and I are pretty sure that it was rebuilt at least in part during the time of the Dales. When humans destroyed the Dales, so too did they assault Sundermount again.”

She glanced at the barrier she stood within. “Evidently more survived that attack than we thought.”

Hawke pushed a foot forward, stopped at the barrier. “Looks like we can’t make it through. Can you just take the thing – “ she reached into her shirt, withdrew _Asha’bellanar’s_ token.

Fear blew up within Merrill. “NO!” she shouted, holding her hands out. “It was given to you, you must be a part of the ritual. We _cannot_ stray from _Asha’bellanar’s_ instructions.”

“We could try breaking through,” Carver responded. “Give that old pillar up there a kick, maybe this magic dies.”

“Or it surges and throws us all from this precipice,” Mallet countered. “We must move carefully with such ancient magic.”

“Couldn’t we get Daisy to tie a rope, and we swing around,” Varric supplied. Carver and Hawke both stared him down. “What? Just an idea.”

“A bad one,” ruminated Aveline in her heavy armor.

Merrill blanched at the thought of damaging anything that remained of time now lost, but she could not see any alternative. _The ema’elan_ _ **must**_ _reach the altar and perform the ritual. The only way that may happen is if this barrier falls._

She closed her eyes, tuned out the arguing humans and _durgen’len_ below her, pushed outwards with her magic. She carefully avoided the presence at the mountain’s summit, instead limiting herself to this small barrier. Prodding at the magics within, she felt through their interwoven nature and felt the strings in it. In her mind it looked almost as a tapestry woven in light. Finally, she found the cord that she was sure would unravel it, gathered her will, and tugged at it with all her might.

Nothing happened. She tried again, and again, collapsing with the effort. Not even a budge, as if the tapestry’s thread was of solid granite. Distantly she heard a worried voice, another asking her if she was alright. Another yelling, “What is she doing?!”

She ignored them all as she realized she alone could not weaken the thread enough to unravel – but she could break it if she were stronger.

Without opening her eyes she pulled off her glove, tossed it to the ground. Her hand found the small paring knife at her belt, and brought it up to her exposed palm. With the familiar pain, the iron tingle of power suddenly flowed in the air. Tickled her nose. Flowed into her. Her blood soaked the thread, made it brittle, and she cracked it with all her remaining might.

She felt it collapse, the air abruptly chilling as the ancient magic faded, even as her flowing blood rapidly replaced the warmth. She reveled for a moment in its glow until the pain became too much. She used the power of the flowing blood to seal her wound, forcing the throbbing pain into a mild ache.

Merrill opened her eyes, still kneeling between the columns. The party below her stared in absolute, slackjawed horror.


	11. X: Kinloch, Denerim, Sundermount

**X: Kinloch, Denerim, Sundermount**

Martin stood at the ready, on edge – hands on his hammers. The elf First, who had at first seemed so painfully innocuous, had just let loose a torrent of blood magic. Below her, puddled on and seeping between ancient stones lay a small pool of blood. The elf ran her bleeding hand through it sensuously, before snapping the hand up and sealing her own wound. She opened her eyes with that same innocent, anxious look she’d had locked in since they’d met her.

_Blood magic. I have seen it before – from Tevinters, Avernus, Kinloch, Denerim. What she just did would see her killed anywhere the Chantry touches_. The raw, terrible power in the air made his skin crawl. Everything he had been taught as a child cried for an attack, begged that he run, demanded that he face the maleficar. _You are an apostate. The Wardens use a form of blood magic to stop the Blight. Even now, Avernus sits in his tower and experiments with tainted blood to find a method of harnessing – or curing it._

He let his hands fall from his hammers before he reconsidered and instead grabbed the flask on his belt. Then swallowed a mouthful of the stuff to wash the revulsion down. It didn’t work.

“Maker’s breath…” Varric breathed beside him.

Aveline looked concerned, but she looked to Hawke. Carver seemed curious, but that was it – Hawke stood rigid as a statue, pale as marble.

“What have you done?” Hawke asked, clearly horrified. “That was…”

_Must be her first view of blood magic. Probably the first for the rest of them as well._

“Yes,” Merrill answered, pushing herself up from one knee. “It was blood magic.”

“Are you insane?” Aveline demanded. “Would you summon a demon down, here?”

“I know what I’m doing,” Merrill interjected, defensive. “I did not summon a spirit. I didn’t have the strength without the blood to open the way forward. It was my own blood, what harm is there in using it?”

“’What harm,’ she says,” muttered Aveline. “It is the work of demons, passed down from them to Tevinter. How could it be anything but harm?”

Merrill shook her head, grimacing. “There is no harm if it isn’t forced on another. It does not rely on spirits, only on blood.” she stood up straighter. “Who says it’s always so horrible?”

“That would be the Chantry. As in, the Chant of Light,” Varric supplied, more subdued than normal. “You know, the magisters that sacrificed a thousand slaves? Broke through the veil? Started the Blights? That kind of story sets a bad precedent.”

“We Dalish have our own stories,” Merrill answered solemnly. “We don’t need to borrow yours.”

“’Da always warned us of it,” Hawke said, quietly – almost to herself. “’It is the sign of a weak mage to stoop to using the blood of others.’”

“I only use my own blood,” Merrill answered, exasperated. “I don’t want to argue this with you all, too. The Keeper has said it all – but it is the only way – “ she stopped herself, gripped her staff intensely. After a moment she spoke again. “Let’s just… perform the ritual. Then we can go to Kirkwall.”

“You’re coming to Kirkwall? With us?” Carver asked, baffled. Of all present, Martin noticed, he seemed the least perturbed by the flagrant use of the most forbidden magic. “What about your clan?”

“The Keeper asked us to ensure she reach her ‘new home’ safely,” Martin cut in as he capped his flask. Before he could place it back on his belt, Varric snatched it from his hands and took a swig.

“I thought elves ran away to the Dalish, not the other way ‘round,” Carver responded, even more confused than before. “Alienages aren’t really… well… you may be shitting in the woods out here, but the Alienage is right shithole.”

Merrill winced as if struck. “I… the Keeper does not agree with what I need to do. I’d rather not say more. Please? Can we please move on from this? We must complete the ritual.”

Hawke held her hand up, silencing Carver as he tried to speak yet again. Carver bit his tongue reluctantly. “I think that would be best. Lead on, Merrill. Let’s just… get this over with.”

“ _Ma serrannas_ ,” the elf replied, smiling tightly. She turned and moved on through columns. They trudged after her, though not before Martin retrieved his flask from the dwarven thief.

“Good shit,” Varric muttered to him. “Helps with the crazy shit.”

_And everything else_. Martin nodded silently, keeping his thoughts to himself.

They passed through the columns this time without difficulty, coming upon another ancient structure. Though its ruined state made it difficult to determine what it was supposed to look like, Martin had the distinct impression that the overgrown courtyard was originally constructed to be at least in part open to the air. And why not? Before them, past the wide terrace of occasional tile, plant life and stone lay a view that stretched for miles. The muddy, wooded hills with the Imperial Highway cutting straight through, then veering off to the distant city of Kirkwall towering near the end of sight. To the south the Waking Sea stretched to the horizon. _Hard to believe, to the south and east a ways lies Highever. Home, once._

Just before that vista that teased of home, only a few paces away from the drop, stood a single, simple stone altar. Dark braziers flanked it on either side.

His curiosity piqued, Martin stepped forward past a stopped Varric – only to find himself stopped by Aveline’s arm flung across his chest. Martin looked at her quizzically. Her only response was to jut her chin at the rest of the group.

Hawke and Carver stood, weapons drawn, behind Merrill – who knelt along the edge of a frayed fresco, her knuckles held firmly to the art.

“I’ve been dealing with them for days,” Merrill was blurting, voice frantic. “They’ve been restless – _It_ – something has disturbed them. Tortured them. Perhaps the barrier…”

“ _It_ ,” Hawke demanded, gripping her spear tightly. “What are you on about?”

Aveline drew her own weapons, Martin moved to follow suit – only to find himself buffeted by a blast of chilled air. _Not air, the fade._ It emanated from below, from all around – and from the altar before them.

He felt the air warble as if the whole world shook. An all too familiar itch broke out on his skin even as he felt his joints freezing up. It reminded him of another time, another life – not too long ago.

_The bottle, cool air emanating. Threatening to freeze all that surrounded them. Carys held it in her hands, read the inscription. The black fluid within seemed to wisp and whisper, demanding a release._

_Morrigan had been off to the side, examining some ancient runes that littered the walls of the ancient temple they now explored. ‘Elven,’ she’d said, as if that was all that needed to be said. Now she had turned, no doubt feeling what Martin felt – the pure power roiling forth from the bottle Carys now examined._

_She was quicker than Martin, but then again, she had more practice – more idea at what that awful feeling meant. Even as she launched herself forward, even as she cried her warning – it was too late. The glass shattered in Carys’ hand, the wisp within shaping into a demonic form before their eyes. Lumbering, armored, a greatsword in one hand, it was only fortunate for Carys that it_ _but_ _threw her to the side with its free hand – and lunged instead for Martin._

Martin snapped back to reality as he felt its cruel blow again, when his bracer had held as he deflected the blow even as his arm had shattered. It was a fight of its own to keep his left hammer in hand at just the memory of that pain.

“Brace yourselves!” He cried, eyes turning to him in confusion.

“It’s waking –“ was all Merrill managed to cry out in turn when all hell broke loose.

The fresco shattered below her, throwing her off her feet. A gauntleted hand emerged, protruded from the earth below and shook insanely before tightening into a hard fist. Another hand joined the first, throwing a large chunk of stonework Hawke’s way that she just managed to dodge. The hands grabbed at earth around them and _pulled_.

It rose as a demon from the very depths below – a dark figure clad in tattered but still fearsome armor. Dark brass buckles, green trim – all caked in earth and stone. The armor itself was strange, smooth on the shoulders and legs but strangely angular with protruding buttresses on the gauntlets. Its face was hidden under an fraying hooded cloak. It reached upwards into the air with both hands, the freezing winds of the fade soaring forth as the outline of a massive, curved sword formed in between its hands. It swung the phantom blade, a mournful whine keening through the air as it planted the tip into what remained of the fresco.

Hawke moved first, Carver close behind as they warily shifted to opposite sides of the phantom. Aveline hefted her blade but remained still – behind Martin stood Varric, stricken with disbelief. _Or fear. It is difficult to read Varric, with the sheer number of practiced lies he surrounds himself with._

Martin was jolted from his own strange analysis when the creature spoke. Its voice was unnatural, harsh with disuse, but it rose to painful volume.

“ _ **Tel garas alasan**_ ,” it echoed, raising its blade one handed to point at Merrill. She had managed to scramble onto her back, her staff clutched in one hand off to the side. At its regard her already pale features turned porcelain. “ _ **Ir ma halam, shemlen**_.”

Carver chose that moment to strike, bringing his own massive blade down at an angle towards the side of the figure. Against all elven and most human fighters such a swing from a big man like Carver would be aimed towards their neck, or even their skull. Instead the blow headed towards the tall shade’s armored back.

As Carver swung Hawke moved far more cautiously. She jabbed forward with her spear even as she extended her buckler to cover herself, ready to block.

The creature reacted with a flash, throwing back its shoulder to expose a spaulder to Carver’s furious swing. It clanged mightily against the metal, knocking Carver’s blade away. The shade pivoted with that movement towards Hawke and brought its ghostly blade into a side swing.

Carver stumbled as Hawke dodged backwards, flailing, barely avoiding the massive ethereal blade.

“Maker!” Aveline bellowed, both a plea and a war cry as she leapt into the fray. She presented her shield as she charged, making to bash the seemingly off balance creature in the side. Martin followed her without thinking, moving to flank her charge to one side.

It became immediately apparent that the hade was far from off balance as it swung its sword around horizontally, slashing at both Aveline and Martin simultaneously.

Martin had made the mistake of approaching from Aveline’s left and so he was first in the path of the blade. He felt the breeze of the fade rush from within him as he called what he could, what he dared. Time seemed to slow slightly as the blade came ever close to slicing through his arm. He dropped hard, faster than should’ve been possible, knocking the wind from his lungs. He felt the blade pass not even a handspan over his head as he fell.

Aveline’s reaction was slower but she had the luxury of distance. She too dropped, but to only one knee, reinforcing her battered kiteshield – Martin absurdly just noticed it bore not the emblem of the City Guard, but the Templars – and held it aloft at an angle.

For a brief moment the horrible scream of metal on metal scraped through Martin’s ears, temporarily deafening him. Then the blade passed by the shield even as the creature recovered from its mighty swing.

Carver, off balance, attempted an upswing from where the spaulder had deflected his blow – his eagerness saving his life. His blade, instead of striking up the skirt of the creature instead met its renewed swing – the crash of the impact echoed through the ruined temple. Carver flew backwards, hit one of the few standing walls hard and crumpled in a heap as his sword cartwheeled away.

Hawke screamed his name then, stabbing forward far less cautiously than before. The creature moved far quicker than should’ve been possible, answering Hawke’s assault with its own.

This time Hawke did not evade, brought her far too flimsy buckler up to meet its blade as she stabbed her carved shortspear into its midsection. It buried deep into the creature, evidently missing its ancient armor.

At that same moment its counter swing met Hawke’s buckler, smashing it but miraculously not piercing it. Martin winced at Hawke’s shriek of agony as her arm was audibly crushed and she too fell backwards at the impact. Her spear remained lodged in the creature’s stomach.

Martin hardly had time to dive to the side as it immediately swung over its head to come down on where he lay not a moment before – as his tumble ended he hit one of the discarded pieces of fresco hard, setting black stars sparkling at the corner of his vision.

The immediate lack of counterattack saved him and he rolled to his feet, albeit unsteadily. Aveline was trying to swing at the creature with her sword, but instead found herself dropping to her knees again as it side swung at her. She managed to once again redirect the blow with her Templar shield.

It stepped back, attempting to leverage an overhanded blow that would crush the brave guardswoman, shield or no, when its booted foot suddenly caught. Roots slithered up from the ground to tangle in its feet, holding it fast. Out of the corner of his eye Martin could see the skittish First standing tall, her staff dug into the earth as she clutched it with both hands. He could feel her will, the magic coursing through the earth and guiding the plants to her bidding.

Though immobile the creature still attempted an off balance swing at the still kneeling guardswoman, bringing its blade down in a wicked arc. Its swing was knocked to the side as one, then three bolts clattered in rapid succession from its strange breastplate. A fourth slammed into its exposed underarm and a horrible, echoing wail pierced the air as it slammed the blade beside Aveline rather than through her.

Aveline wasted no time, stepped forward, and smoothly slashed at the creature’s cloaked face with her sword. Instead of blood flicking from the blade and fountaining from the lethal wound Aveline had just inflicted, a splash of soil splattered forth.

The creature pitched to the side, dragging Aveline’s blade – and arm – down with it. As it crumpled the ambient chill Martin had felt the whole fight, the unsettling presence of strange magic abruptly ceased. It was as if a weight was pulled off his chest.

They all stayed where they were in shocked silence for a moment. Then, Aveline pulled her sword from the creature.

Aveline kicked at the cowl, knocking it aside. A browned skull lay within, a large gash in its side where her sword had taken across the face. As she prodded it with her boot it disintegrated, collapsing into dust. She stared a moment at it in shocked silence.

Hawke’s moans brought them back to reality. She moaned once, twice – then stopped. Martin was up in a flash, pushing himself to his feet and running to the woman. Aveline for her part moved to Carver.

Hawke was on her knees several feet back from the dead shade, cradling her buckler in her still good hand. Martin knelt at her side as she whimpered once. He took her shoulder in one hand, made to look at the wounded arm, recoiled. Her arm was fractured, shattered – bones visible in multiple places. No blood leaked from the wound, why it did not Martin realized immediately – Hawke must know some healing magic. Some, but not enough to repair such a wound. _The power and focus alone to knit the bone into a cohesive, fragile whole… not to mention the amount of knowledge and skill required for such an action. Would that Wynne were here._

She met Martin’s eyes – look full of pain, but alert. “Car..ver…” she gasped.

Martin snapped up, shouted, “Aveline!”

“He’s breathing,” Aveline supplied, voice unsteady. _Comedown. Adrenaline._

Martin felt a hand on his shoulder and moved to the side at the light shove. Merrill crouched below him, blanched but focused. She hovered her arms over Hawke’s arm, inspecting for just a moment. Then she took it, looked closely. “You have magic,” she whispered, shock evident in her voice. “I thought humans lock their mages away.”

“It’s… secret…” Hawke grunted. “Templar’s… don’t lock what they don’t know.” She whimpered as Merrill moved her arm closer, gentle yet firm.

“You have to let it go, Hawke,” Merrill implored. “Let it bleed.”

Hawke looked up sharply, fear evident in her eyes. It struck Martin harder than anything else. In all the hell that they had been through beneath Darktown, Martin had not once caught fear from her.

“Please,” Merrill whispered. “It will help.” Her eyes were so honest, so earnest, that Martin felt sure that what she said was true.

Hawke evidently saw the same thing. She stared a moment longer, nodded once, then screwed her eyes shut.

As the blood immediately began to seep from the mangled arm Merrill placed her hand directly in it, allowed it to flow through her fingers. Martin felt that iron tinge, that unholy feeling of its power as she harnessed it and directed it into Hawke’s arm.

Hawke cried out in agony as the bone wrenched, then straightened. Flesh grew over in mangled patches, covering the bone. After a moment it was done, the wound closed – the arm was still crooked, still damaged, but it no longer looked as if amputation was the first logical choice.

Merrill’s head lolled for a moment as the power ceased, her own eyes shut. When she opened them it was to Hawke grimacing in agony as she flexed the hand on her wounded arm, stiffly and painfully.

Merrill grabbed her hand, withdrew immediately. “Sorry… but… I’m not the best healer. Someone else will need to look at it to make it whole again.”

Martin thought to the elves below. “Perhaps the Keeper would…”

The elf beside him looked at him as if just remembering he was there. She nodded. “She would be willing, after we complete the ritual.”

At that moment Varric stepped up beside them, Hawke’s spear in one hand. He held a hand out to Hawke. “You alright?”

She took his hand and allowed him to pull her partially up before making the rest of the way herself. She took the spear in her good hand and cast aside the remnants of her buckler.

“That was some freaky shit, Hawke,” Varric said. “That thing that attacked us? Bones. It crumbles when you touch any of them.”

They moved as one to the creature, though Hawke continued past it to the kneeling Aveline and Carver. Between Varric, Merrill, and Martin however there did not seem to be an abundance of concern for the boy. Martin felt a stab of shame at that. _He is an arse. Does not mean you should not show concern for him. He is a comrade._ He knelt and moved a hand to grasp at the breastplate below him.

“Wait!” Merrill cut in. “Don’t touch it,” she ambled up to the creature, knelt beside Martin, for once seemingly at ease. Or at least sufficiently distracted to not notice their presence.

She hovered a hand over the monstrosity, made as if to touch or prod several times, but instead finally withdrew her hand. “This is… old. Older than the Dales. This may even be from Arlathan.”

Varric whistled. “Gotta be worth a shit load, am I right?”

Merrill whirled on him. “The Keeper will want to see this. This is ours – of the People. Besides,” she said, cowing. “It may still be dangerous. We may have driven the spirit from the bones, but a remnant might still linger.”

“’Spirit in the bones?’” Varric paraphrased, backing up. “Okay, consider me convinced. No touchy for us. You guys can have it.”

“It was a shade, then?” Martin asked, curious. Hawke was clearly a mage, though he doubted she knew anything more than your average Circle mage. Merrill was Dalish elf, one of the only learned groups that had apostates. Perhaps the only group outside the Circle, at least here in the South.

A thought unbidden flitted through his mind, of raven hair and amber eyes. At what she might think of the opportunity to interrogate a Dalish First. _S_ _he had shown no interest in speaking to Lanaya, though Zathrian… that was a different story._ He shook the image from his mind even as he instinctively took another drink. _‘Never follow me…’_

She looked at him curiously. “Yes. A spirit inhabited this…” she gestured towards the ruined remains. “But not just any spirit. A memory of the days of Arlathan.”

He remembered her lessons. ‘ _Spirits cling to emotion, to memory. They cluster at the veil, peer in to where misery and violence have weakened it. Sometimes when the notion takes one, it joins the memory._ ’ “An echo,” he said softly.

She nodded.

Varric grabbed at Martin’s flask again. He let him take it.

“Merrill,” Hawke’s voice came from across the remains. Merrill stood up immediately, steadying herself on her staff.

Hawke gestured to her. “Can you see what you can do for Carver?”

“A-all right,” she stuttered, stepping carefully around the destroyed shade.

Varric took another swig of the flask, passed it back. “You think what she said was true?”

Martin glanced at him, taking a sip of his own and grimacing at the size of it. _Varric and I have done a number on it_. “You mean the spirit? Or the age.”

He handed the flask to Varric. The dwarf took a belt before responding. “Both I guess. Both sound crazy, but I guess no crazier than rat eaters.”

Martin looked at the figure, at the ancient armor. “She would know more of shades and Arlathan than I _,” though I supposed I know more than most. The Temple of Sacred Ashes, the Brecilian Forest, Ostagar… I have seen quite a few of ancient ruins crumbling to dust._ “It is assuredly ancient.”

Varric grumbled something that might’ve been a curse as he wiped his mouth. “We’re not even getting paid for this. Why am I here again?”

Martin shrugged. “One must take any excuse to get out of Kirkwall.”

Varric made a face as he handed the now empty flask back. “Hey. Kirkwall’s my city. Born and raised, cradle to grave. You don’t just insult a man’s home to his face.”

Martin looked at him and cocked an eyebrow. “You have a point there, dwarf. I suppose there are worse places to be from. Orlais, for instance.”

His drinking companion gagged comically at that. “Orlesians. You got that right. Tell you what, they invade Ferelden again? Bianca and I got your back. In spirit. We’ll root for you, the whole way.”

“And you no doubt have all of Ferelden’s thanks,” Martin answered dryly.

“And you all will have my most sincere, ‘you’re welcome.’”

At that moment Hawke stood, head bent in an unheard conversation with Merrill. They moved together towards the altar.

“Junior must be alright,” Varric observed.

“Right.” Martin pushed himself to his feet and glanced down at the dwarf. “Coming?”

“What, for the ritual? Knowing elves it’s got some crazy magic shit involved. No thanks. I’ve had enough for today, thank you.”

Martin inclined his head and stepped over the empty armor, stepping on stone and earth as he made his way to the two mages now standing before the altar.

They stood, heads bowed, Merrill’s hands clasped in prayer. _“-melana sahlin_ ,” he heard her say as he stepped up behind them and off to the side. He didn’t want to interfere, but he found himself curious. _She would want me to see._

“ _Emma ir abelas souver’inan isala hmin vhenan him do’felas_ ,” she continued softly. She drew a circle of dirt on the top of the surprisingly immaculate altar. She gestured to Hawke.

Hawke reached behind her neck, unwound the cord, and placed the wormwood talisman on the altar. Martin felt the fade for a moment as Merrill lit a flame in each hand – wisping blue flame. It looked more like the reflection of fire than an actual fire.

Two stone braziers stood at each end of the altar. Merrill lit each one in turn then doused the flames in her hands. She moved to stand before the amulet. “In uthenara na revas,” she chanted, closing her eyes and inclining her head.

Martin was bowled over as again freezing winds buffeted him, sending him to his knees. He cried out in surprise, in alarm, tried to cover his face with his arms. It was as if he was suddenly in the heart of a blizzard, unearthly snow whipping him down. He couldn’t think, couldn’t do much but try to protect himself from the onslaught.

Somewhere distantly he heard a rumbling, a great crash as if lightning struck not ten paces away. He clenched his eyes, formed the only coherent thought he could manage – a prayer. _‘With souls made of dream and idea, hope and fear, Endless possibilities.’ Maker, see me through._

As suddenly as the onslaught had set upon him it ended. He froze for a moment, the relatively warm air suddenly far too hot in comparison. He stood, opened his eyes, and looked upon the altar.

Atop it stood an old woman, a stoop to her stance. Her hair crowned her face, hung all about in a tangled mess. She was dressed in roughspun rags, her eyes bleary and bloodshot. All in all, unassuming to the letter.

Except he knew her. Knew that face. He’d buried it not a year past. _Flemeth._


	12. XI: An Old Hag Who Talks Too Much, or Lost Memories of Home

**XI: An Old Hag Who Talks Too Much, or Lost Memories of Home**

Merrill could scarcely believe it. Before her stood an old woman, frail and human in appearance. Wild hair framed her ancient face while aged rags covered her beleaguered form. She seemed to tower over Merrill, despite her hunched and small stature.

Merrill then realized (to her shame) that the old woman towered only because she stood atop the altar, in the circle where the wormwood amulet had been lain to rest. Merrill looked up to the woman’s neck to see the amulet set there, dangling from her mottled throat.

She realized with a start who the woman was. _She stands in front of you right now! One of the oldest beings in this world._ She immediately fell to on knee, both out of reverence as well as abject terror.

“ _Andaran atish’an, Asha’bellanar_ ,” she recited, woodenly and from memory. Lessons in propriety, in the respect and fear of what could squash one like a bug being the only things that kept her from putting her foot in her mouth. Lessons that Keeper Marethari drilled into her. _Another thing to thank her for. To miss her for._

Asha’bellanar stepped down from the altar with grace that belied her appearance. Merrill glanced up to see the being looking down upon her, face impassive.

“One of the People…” Asha’bellanar intoned slowly, carefully. “I see, so young and bright. Tell me child, do you know who I am, beyond that title?”

“Only a little,” Merrill managed. _Asha’bellanar… woman of many years… an ancient being, one not to be trifled with._

“Then stand,” commanded Asha’bellanar. “The People bend their knee too quickly.”

Merrill stood shakily and Asha’bellanar nodded her approval. The being then cast her gaze upon the others gathered, lingering on Mallet. “How strange. Is it fate or chance?” She asked, as if to herself. “I never can decide.” Merrill turned her head to Mallet – and saw a man pale with dread.

“Does it matter,” he asked, voice quiet and strained.

Asha’bellanar threw back her head and laughed uproariously. It was not a happy sound. “Now **that** is the right question. No, dear boy, it does not.” She turned that horrible gaze back to Hawke, a smile on her face. “But there are more pressing matters to attend to. I find it refreshing when someone keeps their word. I half expected this amulet to wind up at the bottom of the sea, or in a merchant’s pocket!”

Hawke swallowed loudly. “Even if we weren’t in your debt after you saved our lives, I’d be a right idiot to cross someone who turns into a bloody dragon.”

“There is wisdom in such fear,” Asha’bellanar responded dryly. “But if I wanted you dead I would’ve burnt you with the darkspawn, or simply abandoned you to the Wilds. Did you not consider that?”

“Honestly I thought there was some sort of curse on that amulet,” Hawke replied, a hand rising to rub the back of her neck. “I mean, don’t take it to the Dalish and you smite us all or something.”

“And did you think I would… smite… the Dalish when you brought it to them?” Asha’bellanar was full on grinning now, completely amused.

“No…” Hawke responded, abashed. “Thought it was a message, like a reminder that you’d smite them next week. You would’ve saved us a lot of fear if you’d told us that… were you inside it? How are you here? Come to think on it, I don’t think that would’ve made us feel any better.”

“If fear is what motivated you to see your obligation fulfilled then it was good I did not save you from it. And in answer to your question… I would hardly fit inside an amulet,” Asha’bellanar answered wryly. “But perhaps… just a piece. A bit of security, when the inevitable occurred.” She glanced slyly towards Mallet. “I know my Morrigan far, far too well. She always did choose her… friends well.”

“You mentioned her before,” Hawke said, halting for a moment as if she had reconsidered. “Who is she?”

“Would that one of you knew her,” Asha’bellanar laughed. “You would know that she is a girl who thinks she knows better than me, or anyone. But I can hardly fault her for such notions, after all, I raised her to think so.”

“I…” Mallet started saying, but Asha’bellanar interrupted him immediately.

“It would not do for a dead man to interrupt,” she rebuked, a sudden hint of malice in her voice. “After all, one can hardly remain buried if he claws his way back to the sky.”

His jaw snapped shut.

As Asha’bellanar turned back to Hawke she seemed to finally notice the rest of the party, scattered as they were behind the three supplicants. “It is good to see you all honoring your responsibility, all who are able at least, though it seems your brother is somewhat worse for wear. Do not fear, his wounds are not fatal.”

“There was some sort of shade,” Hawke supplied. “Yelled at us in elven. I suppose it didn’t want to entertain.”

“Anywhere the People once slept is a feast for spirits. So much history, so many memories – too bad they don’t realize what it is exactly they are biting in to. This makes them dangerous.” She looked up over their heads, eyes to the summit of the mountain. “Though the ones that do… they are who you should fear most of all.”

Merrill, unsure of what further to say to the ancient being standing before them instead thought back to the shade they had just fought. _Were the People so tall then, so strong?_ _Shemlen. It did not call the humans shemlen, it didn’t even notice them. It called_ _ **me**_ _shemlen. I suppose we are now. Quicklings, mortals – cursed to die._

“And see how easily she slips,” Asha’bellanar said, driving Merrill from her thoughts. The ancient being was looking directly at her, a look of intense sadness on her face. “You must be careful, child. No path is darker than when your eyes are shut.”

Merrill nodded, clutching her staff, too nervous to answer the advice.

There was an awkward silence at that, Merrill and Mallet cowed into silence while Hawke stood quiet – apparently deep in thought. Asha’bellanar sat down carefully on the altar, slowly, and waited patiently.

Finally Hawke broke the silence. “As you pointed out, we have fulfilled our obligation. What happens now?”

Asha’bellanar closed her eyes. “Now I do what I have always done.” She stepped down from then around the altar, stride full of purpose – then stood at the edge of the cliff.

She turned to regard them, looking over each one in turn once again before settling her gaze on Hawke. “But before we part, know this – we stand on the precipice of change. The world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss. You must watch for that moment, and when it comes, do not hesitate to leap.” She turned now, stepped the one step it took to reach the ledge. As she spoke again her voice seemed to reverberate around them, and Merrill felt the heat of magic radiating from her contradictory hunched shoulders. “It is only when you fall that you learn whether you can fly.”

The being thrust her arms out to her sides as if she wished to embrace the view before her. Then, she stepped once more and plummeted out of sight.

An explosion of heat burst up from where she fell – and an earth shattering roar thundered from that conflagration.

A creature the likes of which Merrill had never seen swooped up from below, purple scales glinting in the late afternoon sun. Its wings commanded the wind, sent it soaring above them where it circled once. It cried out once more, belched a stream of fire, before it flew directly over the altar and away. It only took a few moments for it to fade into the distance, finally melting into the far off sea to the south.

_A dragon. A dragon – she is a dragon!_ Merrill thought in sudden excitement, her melancholy forgotten. She knew she should feel afraid, should thank the Creators for surviving an encounter with Asha’bellanar – _but a dragon!_ “I thought they only existed in stories!”

“Sometimes,” Hawke smiled ruefully, though her eyes remained on the horizon the dragon had dissipated into. “I think it _all_ is just a story, told by somebody... The Maker? Some Spirit? Corff? Who bloody knows… Maybe I’m still in the Wilds, bleeding to death from the Darkspawn, and this is all a dreamed up by me. Only way I can figure that the Witch of the Wilds swooped from the sky to save us from a horde. No way that actually happened.”

The strange awe they found themselves in was suddenly shattered by a distinctive _durgen’len_ chortle behind them. Merrill turned to see Varric, face taut and pale without a shred of humor. “We’re definitely here, Hawke. No way anybody could make this shit up. Not even me.”

Hawke turned too, the spell on her apparently broken as well. “I’ll never get used to you having the right of it all the time, Varric.” She shrugged, rolled her shoulders. “At least now the potential curse of Cormac’s Foe is lifted from over my family’s heads. How’s Carver?”

“Awake. In pain. Swearing up a storm.”

She smiled genuinely. “That’s my brother. Come, let’s get back down to the clan. I hope the Keeper can sooth our battered bones.” Grimacing, she glanced to her arm. “Literally, in my case.”

“I’m sure she will help you,” Merrill offered. “The Clan owes you a debt now, for fulfilling our purpose here. However…” _They will be glad to move on. Happy even, perhaps enough to show gratitude to shemlen. Master Illen would give them gifts in better times. Were we not so wary, would that we still had our halla… Paivel would…_ _In better times._

_In better times I would not be leaving. We would not wander. We would live in our homes in the Dales, or even in old Arlathan. There are no better times_ _be_ _for_ _e_ _the Dalish._ She gripped at the pouch hanging down at her waist, at the precious shard that lay within. _But maybe there can be._

“Flemeth was right, wasn’t she?” Hawke asked, nearly startling her. The beautiful human was staring at her, eyes fierce with intensity and just a hint of sadness. “You do slip easily.”

Merrill shrugged absently, too weary to be nervous. “The Clan will tolerate you, but not me. I can’t remain with them.”

Hawke nodded, glancing up the sky. “I don’t think we’ll be able to get very far today anyways. Aveline, Carver and I will stay with the Keeper.”

As they had been talking Mallet moved up to stand beside Hawke, his fingers tapping anxiously at his sheathed hammers. “Want I, Varric, and Merrill here to find a campground a ways from the Clan?”

Hawke looked at him, considering, before turning back to Merrill. “That suit you, Merrill?”

Merrill nodded. “It has been a long day. I would not mind… rest.”

“And we’ll rough it just like proper Dalish,” Varric grumbled behind her without feeling. She couldn’t decide if he was actually annoyed or not. She did note his grin was back to plastered on his still pale face. “Maybe sing some campfire songs, let you all know where we are.”

“I can leave signs,” Merrill said. “I’m not the best Hunter, but I can leave a trail easily enough. No one else will follow. Except maybe the Clan, but they won’t bother us. Probably. I’ll make sure…”

Hawke’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “One minute you’re spilling blood magic, the next you’re crying, and now your making my eyes water like a proper daisy. Go on, get a move on. We’ll follow behind, hopefully catch up by sundown. No need for a trail.”

Things moved quickly from there. Merrill followed the battered man and the talkative _durgen’len_ down the mountain, back through the temple – Mallet took the lead with a brisk pace. She fell behind only once, when she allowed her fingers to skirt the reliefs of the Creators one final time. _I don’t expect I will return here, at least… not for a long time. Give me strength._

Merrill felt herself slipping once again into melancholy, but this time she refused to allow it total dominion over her. She glanced down off the cliffs as she walked, admired the brown and green mottled forest that seemed to stretch to the edges of vision. They were on the opposite side of the mountain now, halfway down. She marveled at the coolness, the comfort she found in the ancient steps even as she admired the world around her. Distracted herself in it.

Finally they came back upon the Pale Graves, memorials of the Dales to their fallen. Merrill allowed herself to touch the Beyond, feel its warm embrace at the tips of her fingers as she felt for the spirits buried here. They were quiet, at peace for now. She would leave them as she had first found them, in peace.

The group was silent the whole way, even as dusk set upon the world. Even as they rounded the bend to the camp. Apprehension built within her, fear and despair. As she saw the first of her clan – Harshal, bow held vigilant to the pass. She looked past him, saw the children, saw the others – saw them avert their eyes, heard their muttered whispers. Felt rather than saw Harshal’s steady refusal to see her.

They moved through the center of camp, Merrill’s perception desperately latching to the beauty of the clearing they were in – wet mud and earth, stiff surrounding trees in the dimming light. Fireflies began to flash every so often as the song of the crickets filled the wood. It was much like Ferelden, she realized. The closest thing to her that any Dalish could claim as a home. The land where she had spent half her life. She tried to picture Carys as a child here, with her and at play. Splashing in puddles, Tamlen pulling her hair. Junar stood to the side, older only by a couple years but his arms crossed and shaking his head. She could picture the smile on him.

The sight of the real Junar nearly pulled her from her imagined world, his arms crossed, as he deliberately turned his back on her. From the back he looked as his father would have in the dream, before humans had murdered him when the clan had strayed into the Bannorn.

She imagined she could hear Hahren Paivel calling to them, voice stern but filled with smiles. Tamlen laughed and pushed Carys into a puddle as he sprinted to lessons, Carys for her part desperately trying to trip him. Phantom Carys instead settled for tripping Merrill, catching her before she could fall face first into the mud, and pulled her along. Laughing. They were laughing, all three of them.

A firefly lit in her face, dispelling the dream.

They were outside the clearing now, down the path from camp. Headed back to the Highway built by the tevinter humans of old.

Her face felt incredibly hot, her eyes runny. She felt tears dripping down in the dark, slipping down into the earth as she followed Mallet.

She felt a hand on her arm, dumbly turned to see Varric standing beside her. In the darkness she could only see the form of him, the phantom.

“It’s okay, Daisy,” he whispered. “Kirkwall’s not so bad. Well, it is, but it isn’t, you know?”

She didn’t know. She couldn’t know. She had known first only Clan Brae’ael, but her memories of it were foggy and distant. She _knew_ Sabrae, knew Carys, Marethari, Silael, Pol, Tamlen – she would know them all no longer.

She sat on a fallen tree the _durgen’len_ pulled her to, watched as he pulled blankets from his modest pack. Saw Mallet drop his own pack, withdrawing a hatchet. Observed their preparations, finding herself too sullen assist.

Sparks lit before her as Mallet flicked his tinderbox. She had no idea how much time had passed, how much time she had spent watching and silently weeping. Sparks again and a fire suddenly lit to life in the small pit the human had formed in the center of their modest clearing. The man sat at the fire, pulled something unidentifiable from his pack.

Ever since the fire had lit she found herself oddly fixated on him, as if the only thing she could look at was the marked man now bathed in the flames. He glanced up at her, pulling what looked to be strings off of the strange thing he’d pulled out of his pack.

He jerked his head, beckoning. “Come on, you’ll catch chill out there. Sit by the fire.”

She almost didn’t register what he said, but she suddenly felt a cold breeze slip past her – slipped through her, if what she felt was true.

She stood on shaky legs, made to reach for her own pack of meager belongings on her back (she just remembered she had forgotten to strip her camp on Sundermount), when she found it empty. There was no pack on her back.

Mallet sighed, flicking one of the strings he held towards the fire before absurdly putting it in his mouth. “Varric took it off you not an hour ago.” He jerked his head again, this time at the place across from the now growing fire.

Even in just the firelight she could make out the details of her old leather bag (a gift from Master Ilen) and the tattered green blanket she usually kept within. Spread out on the earth, awaiting her. Even her staff, she realized belatedly was lying propped to the bag. She moved to it nervously, uncomfortable with how vulnerable she had been. How vulnerable she was. _With this human and durgen’len you only just met today._

She sat, heavily, dropping her face into her hands. She realized suddenly the implications that her blanket was spread, her place prepared. “Varric… Varric set this for me?”

Mallet tossed another string into his mouth. He looked even stranger in the firelight, the scars that marred his face seeming to consume the shadows cast by the dim light. He stared into the fire, still pulling strings from the odd lump in his hands. “Aye,” he answered.

She looked into the fire, wondering just what it was this human saw in it. The human with the strange name, strange face, strange string. She had seen him fight the shade on the mountain top, had seen the speed at which he had reacted to avoid its blade, and yet she found herself unafraid at that moment. Unlike earlier, when she had first seen the strange humans. Perhaps even then she hadn’t felt afraid of this man, marked and scarred – _his face resembles my_ _now_ _marked wrists and hands,_ she realized idly.

She thought back to that afternoon, at what she had felt from each stranger in turn – she felt drawn to Hawke, initial fear then a strange gratitude from Carver after had defended her, a liking that had grown towards Varric. He smiled so widely, spoke so grandly, and called her a daisy. Aveline intimidated her, but Merrill did not feel threatened by her.

Of the group, Mallet was different. She did not know what to think about him. What to feel. Even when he had spoken, however briefly, with them to Asha’bellanar – he’d felt almost a disconcerting void to her. A complete unknown – except that Asha’bellanar had cursed him when he’d spoken, called him a dead man, even while she had been kind to Merrill.

It was at that moment that her first emotion arose towards the scarred human – curiosity. A far cry from the all encompassing despair she had been immersed in the last few hours. She seized upon it immediately.

“What is that?” she asked with a hoarse voice, cursing herself for her stupidity as the question left her lips. _You want to know who he is, Merrill, what to feel about him – and you ask him about his food?_ “What you’re eating, I mean,” she said to his questioning look. _Silly, stupid Merrill._

“Rat jerky,” he answered, popping another bit into his mouth. “Stringy as all hell but surprisingly palatable. I have eaten worse on the road.” He considered her for a moment before leaning back towards his pack, pulling a thin stick resembling the one he was eating himself that he tossed over the fire towards her. She caught it clumsily but successfully. “You may as well get used to Lowtown fare if you are to live in Kirkwall,” he counseled as she looked at the dark meat in her hands.

She put a questing finger to it, prodded it delicately. She grasped the edge between her fingernails and pulled as she had seen Mallet do and was rewarded with her own modest string. She put it in her mouth, was surprised at the flavor. _Smoky. Strong._

“Do all humans eat rats?” She asked, realizing as she said it how judgmental it sounded. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that I mean. It tastes… well, it doesn’t taste bad,” she decided. “I mean, it seems like it will be perfectly filling. I… Never mind.”

Mallet looked at her, bemused. “Tastes of burnt shite if you don’t pull it off in bits. Little bits at a time is alright. Hides the stringiness too, ironically.” He put another string into his mouth, swallowing immediately. “Most humans do not eat rat. I have noticed many in Lowtown and below in Kirkwall essentially survive off the stuff, that and whatever else they can catch or afford.”

His voice was strangely quiet here, even with only the sounds of crickets and their small, crackling fire between them. She put another string in her mouth, this time immediately swallowing to avoid too much of the flavor. Just a little bit of smokiness seemed alright.

“Are you not from Kirkwall, then?” She asked. “I mean, if it’s alright if I ask. I don’t want to be rude. I said that earlier, before. I mean, being rude, not asking where you were from. I – I’ll shut up now. You can ignore me.”

“No,” Mallet said, shaking his head. “No need to apologize. None of us are of Kirkwall save Varric. The rest of us, fereldens all.”

“You’re from Ferelden?” Merrill asked, sudden excitement at the connection she now realized they shared. “I spent most of my life there. Well, in the places where humans didn’t live. I saw some places from a distance, though! We spent a lot of time in the east… I think we were in… South Reach?”

The man across the fire tilted his head. “I traveled that way myself a few times, before the Blight. We never encountered any Dalish, however.”

She nodded at that. “We usually stayed away from humans. We traded with one or two at times, but… before, we learned to avoid your people. Not that I’m saying we needed to avoid you in particular, but… you know…”

His head dipped in response. “I understand. Humanity has not done well by the elves. I do not blame you for your caution.”

“I… thank you.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment before Merrill got antsy. She had to fill that void, as at ease as it seemed. “Have you been in the Free Marches long? Do you like it here?”

He pulled another string off his jerky, thumbed it into his mouth. He chewed on the minuscule piece of meat idly as he stared into the fire. “Not long. A month now perhaps, maybe less. I have not been… paying much attention.” He looked up at her. “Ferelden will always be my homeland. I miss it.”

She pondered what he said for a moment before a thought struck her. “Why would you leave home, then? Isn’t the Blight over?”

He stared at her for a moment causing her face to flush in embarrassment.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry… I’m just… I’m not good with people. Especially new people.” She looked down at her hands for what felt like the fiftieth time that day. “The Clan is the only home I’ve ever known, and I’m leaving them too. I… wouldn’t go if I didn’t have to. But I do.”

At that he glanced back down, back into the flames. “Circumstances have driven me from Ferelden. I cannot return – it is likely that I can never return. I understand your pain.”

He looked back up at her, flashing a tight smile. “But Kirkwall, as bad as it is, is not all gloom.” A wistful expression went across his face, a particularly harsh look given his scars and the shadows. “There are good people in Kirkwall, Hawke in particular. Though I… we… shall always miss our homes… it helps to have friends such as her. Or Aveline, even Varric. I did not think to find friends at all, let alone so soon into my exile.”

“What about Carver?” She asked hesitantly. “He seemed so frightening at first, but he was kind to me…”

“I noticed,” Mallet grunted. “He is a child in the body of a man. A kindness here and there does not change that. You should see how he treats his sister most days.” He tore off a sizable chunk of the meat in his hand then cast the rest in the fire. The fire smoldered, a small billow of smoke belching from it. The scent of burnt meat wafted from the flames for a moment. “Perhaps he will grow up. Not soon, I would wager.”

That wasn’t the impression Merrill had gotten from him at all, but then again, she was never particularly good at reading people – particularly today. She was just going to ask Mallet what exactly he meant about Carver being a child when they were interrupted by the return of Varric. Merrill felt ashamed to admit she had just noticed his absence: she hadn’t exactly been all there before she had her chat with Mallet.

The biggest grin Merrill had ever seen threatened to split the _durgen’len’s_ face as he sat down upon the earth, setting his strange weapon gingerly down at his side. “Daisy. Mallet. Nice to see friendship building already. Sodding cultural exchange, right before my eyes.”

Mallet grunted through his final mouthful of meat. Merrill took a tentative bite of her own, more as a defense mechanism than any actual desire to eat – and nearly spat it out. She grimaced as she chewed the foul stuff, nearly coughed as she forced herself to swallow.

Varric barked a laugh beside her. “Mallet, you gave her Lowtown rat and didn’t show her how to eat it? That’s low.”

Mallet shrugged. “Even properly eaten the stuff is bad. What I wouldn’t give for a good stew.”

Varric made a face. “I’ll take rat over stew any day. What’s with you fereldens and stew? Gotta boil all the flavor away? You animals.”

“While we are on the subject, did you find any game?”

“Game?” Varric asked. “I got cards, if you know diamondback – wait. Game? As in dead animals?”

Mallet nodded. “I had assumed that was why you slipped off with that crossbow of yours.”

Varric snorted loudly, irreverently. “I’m a city boy, through and through. I don’t know how to hunt less I see a nug right in front of me. I didn’t see shit. Well, except for shit. Nature’s call you know.”

“I wish I didn’t.”

“’Nature’s call?’” Merrill interjected, confused. “Is that some sort of _durgen’len_ ritual?”

“It’s an everybody sort of ritual,” Varric laughed. “We all gotta go sometimes, Daisy.”

“Go where?” she asked, feeling foolish as even Mallet flashed a strange smile.

“He relieved himself,” the human answered succinctly.

“Oh,” she said, ears burning.

At that moment she was startled yet again by a voice from behind her – “Stand and deliver, ye wretches. Your money or your life.” Any sort of intimidation the woman might have been going for was ruined immediately as she laughed.

Varric threw his arms up mockingly. “Oh please spare me, vile highwaywoman. Wait – Look behind you! There’s a guardswoman!”

“Like that’ll work on me,” Hawke replied gamely, moving into their little clearing. She dropped her pack heavily beside Mallet, crouched and threw her own blanket down on the ground. “Obviously there is no one behind me.”

Merrill swiveled to see Carver and Aveline marching into the clearing – Carver looking much better than he had when they’d parted ways earlier. Aveline seemed much the same – standing tall and exuding strength.

Carver met her eyes and she smiled shyly, feeling emboldened by her conversation with Mallet even as she ignored his characterization of Carver. _He might_ _ **seem**_ _scary, but he stood up for me. He can’t be as Mallet says._

His reaction surprised her. Carver smiled bashfully back, blushing. Nonetheless he moved up beside her, set his own blanket down and sat heavily upon it.

Aveline took one look at the fire, then one look at the surrounding trees. “I’ll keep watch. Wouldn’t want any surprises out here.”

Hawke waved her off. “Good on you, Aveline. I’ll take over a bit later.”

At that the stern woman nodded and moved out of sight, disappearing into the shadows.

Merrill was distracted from this development by the man beside her – Carver was looking at her, still smiling. “You’re looking much better.”

She dipped her head, embarrassed but not quite sure why. “So are you. Looking better, I mean. Not that you looked bad. Just that you were rather pale after that shade threw you so hard.”

Carver bristled at that, but it was Varric who spoke up. “Oh don’t worry Junior, you made on intimidating ragdoll.”

Carver’s smiling demeanor immediately shifted. He snarled, whipping his head to the smirking _durgen’len_. “Varric, so bloody help me…”

“Ugh,” Hawke grunted, curling her lip in disgust. “I’m too tired to deal with this shite. If you’re going to kill each other, do it quietly. I myself am not so eager to undo the Keeper’s work. I’m turning in.” She stood immediately, pulled her blanket several paces back from the fire and lay down. She pulled it around herself, wrapping up in a cocoon of fabric.

“I only meant.. I’m glad you’re alright. That you are all… alright.” Merrill offered timidly as Carver still glared at Varric. “You have all been so kind to me.”

Carver turned back to her, visibly calming down once again. “It was nothing,” he replied.

“Aside from the ‘slitting your wrists and commanding your blood’ thing,” Varric said. “You’re a right daisy, Daisy. Even with _that_ shit there was no call for your clan to hate you so much. Especially that one guy. What an ass. Good on you, Junior, for standing up for her.”

For his part Mallet cast a thoughtful expression Carver’s way. “It was the right thing to do,” he put in quietly.

Merrill didn’t take her eyes off of Carver. “It wasn’t nothing,” she said, then turning to look at them all. “It’s been so hard – “ her voice nearly broke there but she got herself back under control. “I’ve never been very good with people. Even when the clan didn’t hate me… I had only two real friends. One was taken by the Blight… and the other died. I haven’t… I won’t… know anybody, in Kirkwall. I hope you will all visit me. It would be nice to have friends again.”

“Oh sod it,” Hawke barked from her cocoon. She struggled momentarily to sit herself up with no limbs. Somehow she managed it and looked straight to Merrill. “Varric’s right. Just keep your magic… especially _that_ magic under wraps in the city and you can drink with us any time. If you need coin we usually can use a hand on the jobs we’re on. Magic hands are even better.”

Mallet was leaning forward now, looking at Hawke curiously.

Hawke noticed. “What?” she demanded of him.

He chuckled lowly, a tired sound. “You look like a wrapped smokle,” he said, still chuckling.

“And if you were Aveline,” Varric interjected, “You’d be a lit one at that.”

“Oh piss off, Varric.” Hawke bit back without malice, clearly amused. “You too, Martin. Gang up on the bound woman why don’t you. I’m going to bed.” She flopped unceremoniously back onto the ground.

Merrill sat confused as both Mallet and Varric snickered – even Carver seemed to smile slightly.

“Who’s Martin?” she asked.

“A right tosser,” Carver said helpfully.


	13. XII: An Arrest, of a Sort

**XII: An Arrest, of a Sort**

“What do you see?” Hawke whispered beside Aveline as they both huddled behind a particularly large boulder. Aveline held up one finger on her free hand, her sword still in its sheath, then leaned out slowly with her shield up. Before her she could see the wood open up, an empty clearing of grass and shrubs standing against a sheer tan cliff face of the Wounded Coast. She could see a cave mouth open before them, one of the many gashes that gave the Wounded Coast it’s name. This one was smaller than most, perhaps big enough for two people to walk in side by side, and was obscured by numerous boulders scattered in front of its entrance.

Aveline’s thoughts were interrupted by tell-tale flit of an arrow cutting through the air. She reacted on instinct, dropping her head behind her shield. The clatter of wood on stone sounded on the rock-face beside her now sheltered head. She ducked back behind the boulder before another arrow could embed itself closer to her.

Hawke knelt beside her, expecting. “Well?”

“A great deal of nothing. He’s hidden himself well,” Aveline responded, wondering how they got into this mess.

After they had finished their misadventures on the mountain, blood magic and all, she had gone with Hawke and Carver to see the Keeper once more. This time Aveline was present to ask the Dalish leader if her Clan had seen any humans moving through the forest. Before she could provide the Keeper with her description of her quarry the woman had stopped her.

‘ _I do not know if it is who you seek,’_ she had said. _‘But my chief hunter has reported to me of humans skirting the wood towards the coast. Speak to Silael if you would know more.’_

And so she had, eager to be away as the Keeper cast her magic first on Carver, soothing his battered body. Despite her familiarity with Hawke’s magic (the woman only used it sparingly – in fact, Aveline was unsure if she had even seen the woman do anything magical after they had reached Kirkwall together), she found its direct presence unsettling at best. Aveline found herself grateful in a way for Hawke’s constant avoidance of her power. Though Aveline could see magic’s usefulness both as an idea and from its effects, she still could not fight that discomfort she always felt at its sight.

_Wesley would not have approved. He had almost insisted_ _we_ _apprehend Bethany in the middle of the Blight… ‘An Apostate is one who’s intent is unknown.’ Even still he saw reason, soon enough. Maker how I miss that man._

Aveline was no fool, she knew Hawke was a reasonable and responsible woman – but it was difficult at times to reconcile the fact that she was also an apostate. It had been law since time immemorial that magic existed to serve man, and that in order to do so it was necessary to confine magic to the Circles under watchful Templar eyes. With magic came terror and destruction – like blood magic and demonic possession. It only took one mage to inflict massive damage, to destroy dozens to even hundreds of lives. It was necessary for their own protection and the world at large that they remain where Templars like her Wesley could protect them from themselves.

And yet she trusted Hawke. Ever since she had carried Aveline out of the wilderness, ever since Aveline’s survival had been directly because of her magic… she could no longer believe that all mages needed such confining. If Hawke had been confined, Aveline would be dead. It was that simple.

Still, her late husband’s sensibilities yet held some sway over her. Abject usage of magic still set her on edge, this time especially since the Keeper was not under the law of the Chantry. _Maker, her First is a blood mage._

Yet despite being an apostate herself the Keeper rejected her First, apparently because of her blood magic. To many Templars all apostates were essentially maleficarum – by rejecting the Chantry’s philosphy that the magic must serve these apostates took the exact opposite stance that they were to be served instead. And to confuse the already torn Aveline more than that - despite her usage of blood magic Merrill insisted she did no harm to any others. And from what Aveline could tell the elven girl truly meant it. Another chip at the very foundations of what the Chantry taught of the world.

Now that girl huddled behind a particularly large tree, stuck as if she too were rooted in place – not a dangerous malificarum but a girl afraid of combat. Martin knelt in his own cover, a particularly full bush a ways away which he peered through carefully as he struggled to extricate something from his pack. Carver was sat up against another boulder across the way, too large to stand and still be covered. Varric was nowhere to be seen, as often seemed the case whenever trouble reared its ugly head.

“Oi,” Hawke prodded, nudging Aveline with her elbow. “Isn’t this thief of yours supposed to be alone?”

Aveline grunted. “It could be him, though I’ve never heard anything of him being skilled with a bow. He’s just a run of the mill thug, more like throw a sap than an arrow.”

“So…” Hawke said, conspiratorially. “He must be right shite with that bow, aye?”

Aveline kept her eyes on the clearing, distracted. “Arrows have come close to me twice now.”

“Who is it?” Merrill called to them from her own cover. The girl’s voice was strained, tenuous, but clearly not paniced. “Why are they shooting at us?”

“Usual reason,” Hawke called back. “Jealousy of our ferelden swagger. Right, you ready Aveline?”

“Ready for what?” She asked at the same time as Merrill questioned what a swagger was, all while still trying to keep her eyes peeled for their assailants.

“This!” Hawke shouted, dodging out of cover. She leapt as proudly as you please to stand several feet away from her rock. “Hey, you! You might want to quit the archery tourney, you’re a right sorry shot!”

An arrow shot from above the cave entrance, from a shrub-cluttered shelf of rock. It embedded itself at Hawke’s feet. She guffawed without flinching, irrationally amused.

_Has she gone completely mad?_ Aveline thought, leaping out after her friend. She moved as quickly as her burdensome kite shield would allow, kneeling down behind it even as an arrow clanged off its battered surface. The shock of the impact reverberated the metal, shaking her hand down to her elbow.

“Can make it when it doesn’t count, can’t make it when it does!” Hawke shouted over her head at a painfully loud volume. “You’d do proper at the Rose with hands shaking like that! Perfect for a nice frig!”

“Shut your whore mouth!” A distinctly Kirkwaller voice shouted from the clifftop, obviously enraged. “I’ll plow you bloody, bitch!”

That stood Carver right up from his own Carver. “Say that again!”

“Plow yourself!” The man replied instead. “And sod off! This here’s my cave, nobody else’s! Get ye gone while your legs can still carry you!”

“Last I checked this is Kirkwall land, down and through the Planasene, and I have here a _very_ angry Kirkwall Sergeant who’d like a word with you!” Hawke looked down at the still kneeling Aveline, grinning. “You give him what for, Sergeant,” she muttered quietly, encouraging.

Before Aveline could gather her wits long enough to ‘give him what for,’ the bowman himself stood up to his full height, his bow hanging loosely at his side.

“Sergeant? Who? Which one are you? I thought I was to wait for Arren, not no Sergeant.” With that said he grasped his bow in both hands – he leaned forward with it, but didn’t bring it to bear. “This ain’t even the right – “

A telltale clattered sounded from Aveline’s right and slightly behind, out of her field of view. Before her scattered thoughts managed to identify that familiar noise its handiwork sprouted from the standing bowman’s shoulder.

To his credit the man didn’t scream as Varric’s bolt pierced undoubtedly down through his bone, didn’t so much as whimper as his body slammed forwards at the awkward angle of his lean, folded as his chest hit stone, then pitched forward to fall the dozen or so paces down in front of the cave entrance. He landed with an audible crunch that made Aveline wince.

“Oh my!” Merrill gasped, and Aveline suddenly wondered if the seemingly naive girl had ever seen a man die before.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Varric called from behind them. Aveline turned to see the dwarf with his usual infuriating grin. “But Bianca had her own opinions on his aim. She just flies off the handle sometimes.”

Hawke turned full body back to face her slippery dwarven friend. “Nice shot. A bit late, but still, a nice shot.”

Martin stood up to join them, his hammers sheathed but his form still tense. He still held his pack in his hands as he shoved the disassembled limbs of a small crossbow back into it. “You act the great marksman, Varric, but it is quite telling that you waited until after he exposed himself fully to finally shoot.”

Aveline ignored Varric’s bantering reply, Carver’s sneer, even Merrill’s questioning. Her mind was still on her thief, on what he’d been saying before Varric had interrupted him so. _Arren. He was expecting a city guard, ceased his attack when he saw one. I knew the Guard wasn’t exactly honorable, but this…_ She moved up on the collapsed thief who lay in a heap at the cave entrance. The man matched the description she had been given, both by Alienage elves and Darktown denizens – matching burn scar on his jaw, dark hair. He was responsible for stealing much from those downtrodden peoples, most often at the lead of several other muscle bound bastards who beat people down and stole all they carried.

He had invaded homes, sapped passersby. He was even responsible for at least one death, an elf he had kicked just one too many times. _And he was awaiting a guard. Obviously not to be arrested._

Someone in the guard was accomplice to his crimes. Someone profited of his evil, had possibly even taken part in his actions.

Aveline’s blood boiled. _I will find him, and I will bring him to justice. He was to wait for Arren, meaning someone else told him to wait for that sorry excuse for a guardsman. Someone else is responsible._

She fought the undignified desire to kick the man’s lying corpse and instead stepped over it, moving forward into the shallow cave. If she was to find out whoever was abetting him within the guard she would need evidence. Evidence she hoped this man kept.

Rummaging around she found a meager set of provisions, a hefty sack of coins (mostly copper and silvers), and a small firepit. In the pit were the burnt remains of some sort of parchment, probably a letter or other. It was too scorched to get much in the way of meaning but a couple lines were legible.

_...wait Arren, Thur… Dusk. Exchange…_

_...right… Don’t fu…_

She had near concrete proof now. Not only could she testify to the man naming Guardsman Arren as a liaison before his sudden death, but she could also verify that someone instructed him to await a meeting with him.

Guardsman Arren would be getting quite the surprise when she arrived back. _The Captain will assuredly jail him and put him to question. With any luck, we will have rooted out this cyst within the guard by the end of the week._

“Aveline!” Carver’s voice called after her. “You just about done poking around? My sister wants us to start the trek back to Kirkwall sos to get back ‘for dark.”

“I’m done,” Aveline answered, carefully pocketing the damaged parchment. It wasn’t what she’d expected – she hadn’t expected for this thief to have connections within the guard… and it certainly wasn’t ideal. Having him alive to interrogate would have made catching his cohorts much simpler.

What little remained of the letter, and her word, would have to suffice. Stepping into the sun from the brief shade of the cave warmed her skin, brought a spring to her step.

Hawke turned from where she stood to the side with her brother, observing Martin and Merrill as they lowered the recently deceased corpse into the earth. It was a strange sight to see, she prodding the earth with her staff as Martin lit a hastily gathered bit of kindling ablaze at the head. The very earth seemed to swallow the corpse, then the fire. _Magic,_ Aveline thought and turned away.

Once she would’ve objected to such a disrespectful treatment of a corpse, even one of an evil man such as this thief. By Chantry tradition everyone, great or small, received a proper pyre to send them to the Maker’s bosom. Or not, if the man were evil enough.

Her time at Ostagar had changed her mind on that – like so many things. Burning a body properly as the Maker intended simply took too much time for soldiers (or even mercenaries) who had very little time to spare in safety. Those that killed for a living would die of old age after their first battle were they to properly account for the disposal of all casualties. What Martin was doing was a common occurrence in the wilds, on the roads – anywhere a man died and could not be afforded the luxury of cremation. _Burn a fire in benediction, even one as paltry as that was taken to be enough. It was good of him to observe the custom._

“Find anything interesting?” Hawke asked curiously. Aveline looked at her, considered.

“Some,” she admitted. It was too early on to talk openly of what she’d found about Arren, though she doubted Hawke would even care anyways. She already expected the guard to be corrupt, did not seem as bothered by it as she should be. That she assumed Aveline’s lack of such corruption as a given was just another in the set of kindnesses that she had bestowed upon the Guardswoman thus far into their friendship. “Some stolen coin,” she finished banally.

“Did I hear something about coin?” Varric’s voice popped up from where he’d been leaning against a boulder some distance from the shabby burial Merrill and Martin were just finishing.

“Yes,” Aveline answered with just a hint of annoyance at the dwarf’s obvious greed. “I know some of those who had their livelihoods taken by this man. Now I can at least return a part of what was stolen.”

“We could bloody use that coin,” Carver added noncommittally.

“Sometimes,” Hawke said, completely ignoring her brother. “I think you’re too good for this world, Aveline. Too good for Kirkwall, certainly.”

Aveline shrugged at the praise. “There is nothing special in doing what is right. That is the bare minimum anyone must do.”

“Your definition of the minimum is pretty much everybody’s maximum,” Varric said amiably. “People look out for themselves, whats theirs, those that are close to them – then, maybe, sometimes – ‘what’s right.’ And half of people who care about ‘right’ have a ‘right’ that you’d probably think of as a left.” He grinned stupidly at that, characteristically proud of his usual banal insights into mankind.

Aveline rolled her eyes at that, but was beaten to respond by Hawke.

“Wouldn’t mind giving you a right left right now, Varric,” she said with a smile.

“That hurts, it really does,” Varric grinned back.

“It would, that’s for sure. All of this looming lust between us packs a whallop of a punch.”

“For the Maker’s sake, shut it,” Carver barked, shouldering his bag. “You were the one who wanted to get back so quickly.”

Hawke shot a long suffering glance Carver’s way. “Indeed. Let’s head home.”

Even as she shouldered her own pack, her shield slung over-top, Aveline found herself lost deep in thought. Considering deeply the expectations of minimums.


	14. XIII: Old Made New

**XII: Old Made New**

It started about half a league outside the city.

Their group, ambling now that they were within the shadow of Kirkwall, dithered about as they inched ever closer to home. They split, their band contorting into strange shapes as they moved amongst one another – Martin stepping up for a time to stand by and speak with Aveline, Carver sidling up alongside their newest Dalish companion, Varric standing behind everybody as he heckled every conversation he caught wind of. Then they reformed – Carver pulling on ahead (eager to reach home), Aveline following him closely but not too closely (eyes alert, checking both before and behind), Martin walking briefly with Merrill before trailing back (eyes similarly alert), Varric still behind. Hawke herself felt separate from her friends, a mere observer as they shifted and molded against one another. Pensive she was, mulling over all that occurred as they returned to the refuse pit of a city they called home. _Not just call. There is nothing left for us in Ferelden,_ she thought darkly. _Naught_ _but the bones of Lothering. Blighted land._

Unwilling to follow her thoughts down that road she turned her eyes to the companions she followed down the Imperial Highway. One in particular – Merrill.

Left to her own devices as both Carver, Martin, and even Varric turned their various attentions from her the girl began to twitch. Not much, not anything to be concerned about… or at least Hawke didn’t _think_ it was anything to be concerned about. The elf leaned on her staff, the suspicious knotted wood she would have to either conceal or carry about convincingly innocently if she was to live under the noses of the Templars. Her fingers were the objects of the twitch as they drummed slowly along the haft she gripped. The slender digits would separate themselves from the wood, one by one, slowly, then – _there!_ Flail for a fraction of a moment, spasm without conscious direction.

The staccato sped up whenever they neared another traveler, whether it was a farmer’s cart or a patrol of city guards Aveline nodded at. Whenever the offending strangers passed, Merrill’s fingers would slow – but not return to the more relaxed pace they had began at. As they neared the city and the first of the Silent Slaves, their unblemished bronzed forms weeping in agony, the twitching grew even more erratic.

Hawke sidled up alongside the anxious girl, stepping loudly as she did so as not to surprise her. Even still the girl started as Hawke called her name. “Merrill?”

“Y-yes?” Merrill stuttered, snapping her eyes off one of the horrible statues chained to stone along the wide road. Though not titanic like the Slaves bearing the chain in the harbor, the life-sized contorted figures still elicited a feeling of indomitable oppression.

“You alright? You’re looking a might pale,” Hawke asked gingerly.

Merrill met Hawke’s gaze before looking down, then back towards the city. Her fingers drummed, twitched again. “Yes. I’m.. fine. Yes. Fine.”

Hawke cocked a brow at the girl. _You look about as fine as one of Varric’s favorite brews. Downright piss pale._ She didn’t think Merrill would understand the joke, nor take it kindly, so instead she opted for a different approach. “Is this your first time visiting a city?”

“Yes,” Merrill answered, “I mean, no. Not if you count ruins. I mean, though, no… you didn’t mean ruins, did you? No of course you didn’t. Yes, this is the first time… though...” She trailed off into nothing.

Hawke gave her a moment. When the elf didn’t continue Hawke spoke. “Though, what? You can’t just leave a girl all in suspense like that, Merrill, it’s _absolutely_ cruel.”

Merrill glanced at her in alarm. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t mean - “

Cursing her mistake (and just a little bit the jittery girl she was trying her best to calm), Hawke interrupted. “I was fooling, Merrill. Though I would like to hear what you had to say.”

“Oh,” Merrill replied. “Well… I’ve never seen...” she seemed to search for words before she gestured at the looming city before them, tall walls and chains crowned by the view of the distant Gallows. “It looks so… horrible. Though I don’t mean to say your home is horrible!” She was near on panicking now, gesturing to another Silent Slave they trudged past. “But the chains and the walls and the statues are so cruel…”

Before she could get lost on another tangent of self-loathing Hawke interrupted her again. “That they are. Don’t think anybody in their right minds finds them appealing. Most cities don’t have a trail of bronzed exhibits dedicated to torture at every entrance way and inroad.”

“Then why does this city have them?” Merrill asked, all big eyed.

“Used to be the center of the slave trade, back in the days of Old Tevinter. But that’s a time long since past, she’s a Free City now, no slavery anymore. Just ‘indentured’ folk, poor bastards like us, even poorer bastards, some rich shits like Varric, and… well, elves.”

“Yes,” Merrill nodded. “I know that, at least. In all the human cities the People are pushed to the Alienages. They are forced to live separate from your kind.”

She said it so matter-of-factly Hawke felt a pang of pity for the elves, whom she rarely spared more than a second thought for. _I mean, I’m living in the shittier part of Lowtown with a drunkard uncle, an arse of a brother and a worried mother in four rooms. Even still I can walk to Hightown if I clean up right, I can walk the docks without any word more than the average proposition. I can parlay with just about anyone, if I’ve got the coin. Elves get shoved into the Alienage, can’t run shops outside it. No one gives a proper shite about them less they step out of line, then it’s the boot for them all._

_Still, they’ve got it better than Darktown. Least they’ve got each other - and the sun._

“You’ll be fine, Merrill. I’m sure you’ll get along just great with all the Alienage types. They even have one of those special trees you elves go crazy for.”

Merrill looked confused for a moment. “A… tree? Do you mean a _vhenadahl_?”

“It’s ‘ven-a’ something, that’s for sure.” Hawke replied. “Could be that.”

“I wonder… do they know what it means?” Merrill mused almost to herself, fingers tapping.

“Could be they do, could be they don’t. Do you know?”

She brightened somewhat at the question. “’Tree of the People,’ our People, that is. _The_ People. Elves. I know, it’s a bit silly, calling ourselves _the_ People when there’s all sorts of other people but that’s what the elven translates to...”

Hawke shrugged. “It’s not much sillier than humans, honestly. What does that even mean, anyway? _Hugh_ – man? Some Chantry scholar no doubt named it after her pet canary or the like.“

“I suppose you’re right,” she smiled. “Though I wouldn’t mind if we were named after some bird someone loved, or halla, or even a _griffin_. It would be a nice reminder anytime someone said the name – of something somebody cared about long ago.” She looked up to Hawke, some confidence in her eyes. “Even if it isn’t true, I think I’ll pretend that is how humans got their name.”

“That’s the spirit,” Varric called from behind them – _bastard can’t help but eavesdrop_ , Hawke thought fondly – “When in doubt, make shit up. Always works.”

They moved on in amiable silence, Hawke and Merrill, the _hugh_ – man in comfortable reverie and the elf in wide eyed wonder at the city growing ever closer.

Not that the silence lasted long. As Kirkwall grew before them, so too did the bustle of people moving in and out of the city. Laughter, shouts, conversations all filled the air – as did the scrape of wagon wheels, the occasional whinny of the rare horse, and the far more common lowing of various oxen.

Soon the group wasn’t just morphing among themselves, now they moved up against and sometimes even collided with the people of Kirkwall, both citizens and visitors. Farmers from the surrounding lands under the free city’s domain, merchants from both near and far. Sordid types, guardsmen, sordid guardsmen – all moving to enter or leave the Westward gate. Merrill looked ready to jump out of her skin in fear, Carver too – though in irritation. Martin had collapsed into the center of their small band, his left hand resting on one of his hammers. Varric followed behind them all as Aveline forged ahead, insistently but not violently pushing a path through the throng of humanity (with the occasional smattering of elves and dwarves) that blocked their way into the city.

It was actually rather surprising to Hawke how quickly they pushed through. The guards that formed a rough line under the portcullis, normally eager to harass anyone who looked as poor as Hawke did at such an entryway only nodded to Aveline – one even snapped off a quick salute. Only a couple cast a second glance at the elf in their company, and only one of those was a glare. Merrill still shrank somewhat under the scrutiny, but Hawke took her shoulder and guided her steadily behind their Sergeant. _I must bring Aveline on our little outings more often. Could use a little breeziness_ _more often_ _where stormclouds are wont to gather._

Varric pushed abruptly past her as they moved through tunnel under the walls, the torches hanging on either side flecking his already conspiratorial face with odd shadows. He remained just over Merrill’s shoulder, casting a look her way every now and again in apparent… anticipation?

As the light at the end of the tunnel loomed, grew, then finally enveloped them she heard Merrill gasp in elven, and Varric chuckle in common.

“Welcome to Lowtown, Daisy,” Varric smirked.

They had entered at the highest point of Lowtown’s ring, the partial loop of poverty that spun around and clung to the edges of the city. Stone stairs lay before them, leading down into Lowtown’s Western Market below them. Hundreds, perhaps even thousands of people milled under them in the cluttered thoroughfare that housed half of Kirkwall’s hagglers at any given moment. Houses of all shapes and sizes, though mostly quite small, edged the pattern-less geometric streets below. Across the way, down one of the most packed streets Hawke could see the great rope that marked Headsman’s Way. That very same massive spindling of cords rose up through the houses and businesses on the Way, hung down at various intervals out of sight, before finally it looped into a noose where the infamous Hanged Man dangled brilliantly. Hawke could picture the desiccated mascot even now, and felt her mouth salivating at the thought of cheap beer and cheaper company.

It had been a long couple of days. _So long that I’m craving a night at the Hanged Man, even in the afternoon,_ she reflected as she squinted up at the sky.

_A pint will heal that up right quick. Scratch that, twelve pints._

[=]

“Well, that tears it,” Hawke spoke suddenly, voice cutting through the din of the midday Western Market. “My arm still itches, and I’m sure Carver’s still smarting from what that Keeper Marethari put him through.”

“So what if I am?” Carver growled. He didn’t have Hawke’s natural gravitas and so his voice was lost to the crowd – though Varric’s lowly placed ears heard every word.

Hawke continued without even a glance his way. “A pint will get us sorted right quick. Scratch that, twelve pints. Shall we go to the Hanged Man, my friends?”

Merrill flinched a bit at that. “Is this ‘hanged man’ like the others, the figures outside the city? Why would you want to drink near something like that?”

Hawke spluttered for only a moment but any moment of distraction was an opportunity for Varric – and he could never resist an opportunity.

“Nah, he’s not all tortured. Not like the creepy slaves – he’s just a bundle of straw hung up in front of the best damned tavern in the city,” he explained amiably. “Anyone who knows anything, and who’s looking for anything else – well, they go to The Hanged Man. Also has the cheapest booze in town if that’s what you’re looking for. Me, I just like the people.”

“Bullshit, Varric,” Carver sneered. “You drink enough of that swill for any _regular_ sized person.”

“He’s certainly right about the people, though,” Hawke interjected. “That’s where we picked up this admirable sledge.” She gestured pointedly with her thumb towards Mallet.

Varric slapped himself on the forehead. “Maker’s breath, Hawke. If only I’d thought of that first.”

“If you insist on giving me a ridiculous handle,” Martin grimaced, unamused. “I would have you keep it consistent at least.”

“If we could change names so easily after christening,” Hawke added helpfully. “I’m sure mother would’ve redubbed her only son ‘little brat’ on the double.”

“Hey!” Carver whined, bark in his tone. _No bite in Junior surprisingly – right now at least._

“You’ve got a point there, Hawke,” Varric admitted ruefully. “’Sledge’ will just have to wait for the next hammer toting basket case we meet. Mallet I named you, and Mallet you’ll stay.”

Martin rolled his eyes.

“So this Hanged Man,” Merrill interrupted, voice bashful. “It’s a place? And you go there to drink?”

“Aye,” Martin answered immediately. “Though Carver has the right of it – it’s disgusting.”

“Well, horrible or not, I am thirsty.” Merrill answered. “But… I need to go to the Alienage first. I’m not… I’m not sure of the way. The Hahren is expecting me, and I…” She tugged on the straps to her meager pack. “I would like to put my things in my… new home.” Her voice trailed off at that last bit, fading into such a sad sound that even Varric’s cynical heart panged for her. _Poor Daisy._

“And I must report,” Aveline interrupted suddenly. Varric had almost forgotten she was with them. “I was meant to be gone for a day, and that has stretched into two. Aside from that… I have to follow up on what was recovered.” _Pass out perfectly good drinking money to the poor_ , Varric thought sadly.

She stepped forward, throwing an old imperial salute across her chest as Hawke turned to face her. “Thank you, Hawke. As always, I am in your debt.”

Hawke waved a dismissive hand Aveline’s way. “I should be thanking you, for your help with… well, with our business. Bollocks to any debt. Just drop in if you can – we’ll try not to drink all the booze.”

Aveline smiled a small, thin smile. “Perhaps, though I suspect I’ll have a lot on my plate at least for the next few days.” She turned to each of them in turn, giving a quick nod and farewell. “Martin. Merrill.” Her eyes turned down to Varric last with only a hint of distaste on her face. “Varric.”

When she looked to Carver the younger Hawke interrupted her. “Save your goodbyes, Aveline. I’m coming with you. Now’s finally a time when nobodies working – you can get me in to see your Lieutenant, show him what I got.”

Aveline’s face remained stoic but her eyes hardened.

Varric made it a point to know everything about everyone that he could pick up from everywhere at anytime. What he knew could fill volumes – and some of it did, though with a healthy helping of bullshit piled on top. This time he knew that Carver had been trying to get into the Viscount’s Keep for weeks – _no doubt thinking that he can build a name for himself in the ranks of the guard._ Only trouble was, Aveline was dead set against it – _Maker knows why, maybe she just doesn’t want to rub shoulders with Junior every sodding day. Can’t blame her for that, honestly._ In fact Varric was sure she had been deliberately avoiding them the past two weeks just to avoid Carver’s incessant prodding.

“You sure ‘bout that, brother?” Hawke asked before Aveline could reply, mischief written all over her face. Varric doubted her brother could tell what sort. “You ain’t going to throw away a perfectly good afternoon for boozing it up – especially when I’m buying the first round.”

Carver shook his head. “Sure. Great. Sounds peachy. You can buy me a round _after_ I go to the Keep. This is the first time in weeks Aveline’s been ‘round to introduce me.”

Aveline’s look said otherwise, but again Hawke interrupted any response she could offer. “The Keep has stood for a thousand years or more, like the rest of this blighted city. _Two_ rounds on me won’t hold out the next hour.”

Carver turned back to his sister. “Well...” he pondered aloud, obviously torn.

“Then it’s settled! Let’s get proper sloshed, Carver.”

“Fine, fine. But - “ he continued, pointing at Aveline. “Tell me first thing when you can introduce me to someone in charge, someone who can hire on.”

Aveline glanced to Hawke with a contemplative look on her face. What she saw there evidently convinced her to hold her obvious biting thoughts on that idea. Instead she simply inclined her head in farewell to the oblivious boy.

She turned and marched off, down the road skirting the market. _Probably to head north, then east – take the Broken Bridge to Hightown._ Though he had nothing against her, even found a strange fondness for Hawke’s stoic oarswoman friend within himself when he looked – Varric found himself breathing easier at her departure.

_We are after all, criminals. Or at least I am._

“Alright -” Hawke said, clapping her hands together. “Who shall accompany our newest Daisy to the Alienage while me and brother mine go and prepare the beer for the lot of us?”

Martin inclined his head in what was almost a formal gesture, his hands placed on his hammers in what was obviously a practiced motion. _No one bows like that in Kirkwall, what kind of weird shit is that? Must be some kind of Ferelden thing._ Though Varric hadn’t ever seen Carver, Hawke, or the more military Aveline ever do such a thing. Only Aveline really moved truly disciplined like that – and her salutes were the common imperial kind. He filed away the strange gesture for later consideration.

“I will go with her… though I must confess I do not know the way to the Alienage.” Martin’s tone was sheepish, his expression apologetic. “Perhaps if you could show us - “

“Oh no,” Hawke interrupted immediately, expression boisterous… but off. _She’s wound up_ , Varric realized. “Got to save everyone a good seat before the night crowd rolls in. Varric, would you be a dear and show the two of them the proper way to the Alienage? Then show whoever wants the way back to the Hanged Man afterwards. Might even be in time for thirds.” Hawke’s face was charming, smiling – but her eyes had a shimmer of desperation to them. _Andraste’s tits, she_ _ **really**_ _doesn’t want to go to the Alienage_. Another thought he filed away for later.

“You got it, Hawke,” he said aloud to her visible relief. “But you’re getting me a bottle of the good stuff. Tell Corff I sent you, then ask for it. Got it?”

Hawke guffawed. “As if there is any ‘good stuff’ under Corff’s counter. But yes, I will ask, if only to see what that prattling twit hoards as a supposed good.” Her whole body tilted down as she bowed ridiculously. “Master Tethras, Lady Daisy, Ser Mallet – I hope to see you this evening. Come along, brother Carver.”

Carver grimaced, though he quickly chased it off his face to afford a timid smile Merrill’s way. “It was… uh, nice to meet you, Merrill.”

Then he did the least Carver-like thing Varric had ever seen him do – he glanced down at the elf’s chest. _Well, to be fair, that’s exactly the sort of thing Carver does on the regular_ – it was his reaction to his own wandering eye that surprised Varric. The younger Hawke full on blushed and looked away sheepishly. At Merrill’s sincere “It was nice to meet you too,” Carver practically scuttled after his now departing sister, tail between his legs, as if her very words chased him off.

Varric couldn’t help himself and chuckled aloud. “Looks like Junior’s got a crush.”

“’A crush?’” Merrill asked in a confused tone. “I’m sure the Keeper healed all his injuries before letting him out of her sight.”

A snort escaped Varric as he looked to Martin for support. Martin looked back at him with a blank expression, evidently unamused at Merrill’s confusion.

“Am I missing something? I don’t understand?” Merrill asked.

Martin shook his head immediately. “Nothing important. Come, Varric. Let’s get Merrill to the Alienage.”

Varric took the first steps down towards the market as carefully as one of his stature had to. Once they reached the dusty street below and the din of afternoon haggling reached almost intolerable levels, Varric felt the usual urge to play storyteller – or in this case, tour guide.

“This wonderful chaos of noise you see before you is Kirkwall’s Western Market!” Varric half spoke, half shouted to be heard as he turned to his companions. “While Kirkwall might not be the prettiest city around, we’ve got the only opening to the Marches east of Planasene Forest and South of the Vimmarks. That and the fact that we’re about a stone’s throw across the Waking Sea from Highever brings us pretty much everyone moving from Ferelden to the Marches and back again.” Varric swept his arm dramatically across the throng of humanity behind him. “So we get Antivan spice merchants, Nevarran jewelers, Ferelden furriers – they all add up to the most cosmopolitan bunch of traders south of Tevinter herself. You can get just about anything, right here in Lowtown.”

Merrill oohed and ahh’d, obviously impressed, while Martin scowled and muttered something even Varric’s keen ears couldn’t make out over the sound of the crowd.

“What was that?” the dwarf asked.

“And ages past one could purchase all manner of slave here, undoubtedly – from anywhere in the Empire,” Martin answered this time loud enough to be audible.

Varric couldn’t help but make a face. “Yeah, and that’s why they call it Old Tevinter – it’s been dead for a thousand years.”

Martin squinted up pointedly at the Gallows looming to the east. “The stench of bondage lingers even still.”

_Where did that come from?_ Varric couldn’t help but scoff, “What, are you one of those ‘free the mages’ types? I mean, not only are Circles not really just a Kirkwall thing, they’re what keep mages from ruling everybody else.” He couldn’t help but let a little sarcasm slip into that last bit – _not like locking up the mages keeps everybody else from not being pricks._ He glanced at Merrill as he remembered her own status. “Not that I think all mages or hell, even most mages really need a cell.”

The Ferelden blinked, meeting Varric’s eyes as if he just noticed him. “No, I… forget it. It was but a thought, nothing more.”

“You’re right, though,” Merrill chimed in. “With the statues and… that… at least,” she gestured with her staff towards the ancient fortress. _Maker, we need to get that thing away from her._ Walking sticks weren’t exactly uncommon among the people of Kirkwall, especially the many traders who occupied the Market before them, but a Dalish elf holding one only brought eyes their way. _We need to get her to the Alienage pronto._

“Though the market seems quite exciting,” Merrill continued. “There’s so many people! It’s so loud… and so alive! I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Yeah. It’s great,” Varric replied, now more aware of his surroundings and the occasional looks thrown their way. “Let’s get you to the Alienage, Daisy. Double time.”

He led them through the crowd, bodily shoving his way through with one hand on his coin purse and one eye on Merrill. She clutched her staff close to her body. Evidently some of her earlier nervousness had returned. The elf shadowed his footsteps, practically hanging on his coat. _Good, keeps the pickpockets off her._

He cut left once they’d reached the first street – The Cooker. True to its name the narrow passageway’s walls were lined with shops, some inside buildings proper with shutters thrown open to the street, while some simply sat up against walls on stands as their owners attended to their wares.

It was a struggle for Varric to not stop and sniff at the aromas that assaulted them – meat pie, corn hash, dumplings. They’d been on the move since the morning and much of the day – the closest thing they’d had to rest was their brief skirmish with Aveline’s thief.

And the closest thing they’d had to lunch was a quick bite of rat jerky washed down with the lowliest of drinks – water. What the cooks hawked about them smelled amazing, smelled like it’d just about make up for their paltry earlier meal, smelled like… home.

Glancing back showed him that at least Merrill held similar thoughts – she smiled as she closed her eyes momentarily, breathing in. Martin just stood alert, eyes darting. _It’s hard to distract that guy._

But Martin had the right of it. With Merrill looking (and honestly, acting) all conspicuous with her staff and tattoos they had best put a move on it. Varric pressed on, valiantly resisting a mouth watering side of seared ham that was nearly pushed in his face by one of the merchants they passed.

Varric made a note that Hawke not only owed him a drink, but a sodding dinner.

After The Cooker the street wound down, leading them through narrow alleys and clustered neighborhoods where the poor folks like the Hawkes lived. The serpentine chaos of the streets kept them busy as they made turn after turn, ascending and descending various sets of stairs. Even crossed a bridge over one of the few open aired portions of the sewers Kirkwaller’s so charmingly called Darktown.

Finally they reached their destination – at the end of a particularly narrow alley stood a large set of wooden double doors. Set in the dark wood lay etched reliefs of elves, Andraste – that kind of crap. Varric wasn’t much for art. The only thing that mattered to him about this gate was that it was one of only three ways into the Alienage. _Though there’s more ways out, dropping down into Darktown._

He pushed the doors open without a second thought, moving down the steps rapidly but cautiously. Behind him Merrill passed through the gates slowly, running her narrow fingers along the etchings with a strange look on her face. Once she’d cleared Martin passed through even faster than Varric had, shutting the gate behind them.

Like the rest of Kirkwall the Alienage was a labyrinthine array of narrow streets and alleys occasionally opening into courtyards. One right turn and they found the Alienage’s courtyard – its old tree proudly centering the area.

The elves had their own market here, though it was nothing compared to the Western Market. Perhaps half a dozen elves stood at stalls, peddling their goods to several dozen other elves with only the occasional dwarf or human. Compared to the Western the noise of bartering and discussion was near silent as the traders carried out their conversations at a reasonable volume.

As the group crested the makeshift market several sets of eyes turned on them – elves. One in particular pointed, nudged another. He openly gawked.

Merrill sidled up alongside Varric, eyes fixed on the tree. Martin, who had apparently designated himself as her bodyguard, grimaced at her apparent breaking of formation. He flanked her opposite side even as she cautiously moved through the crowd, outstretched a free hand towards the tree.

No one stopped them as Merrill put her hand to the old bark. The relative quiet of the Alienage deadened to an almost awed silence. Near everyone present was now turned to them. Many of the watchers stood with mouths agape, disbelief painted on their otherwise bare faces.

After a moment’s silence one elf stepped forward, female, probably in her thirties. Her angular face was haggard and lined, eyes dark with exhaustion. She clasped her hands together over her stained yellow tunic, bowed her head reverently. Her hands were wrinkled from moisture, her arms shining up to the elbows where her sleeves were rolled up. _Washerwoman, probably._

“ _Andaran ateeshen_ ,” the woman rasped. She bowed her head lower, quietly cleared her throat. “It is an honor to meet one of the Dalish.”

“ _Andaran atish’an, Lethallen,_ ” Merrill replied, similarly inclining her head as she corrected the city elf’s pronunciation. “ _Ma serranas. Elger’nan’enaste._ I am grateful for your greeting.”

The city elf looked up, a look of barely constrained adoration painting her battered features. “And we are grateful for your words. We do not know much of our people’s language here. Any you give is as raindrops in drought.”

Merrill met the other elf’s gaze, a look of pity flashing across her face for just the briefest moment. “There is always time to learn… maybe… I can teach you some, if… if you are willing to learn.”

The washerwoman seemed taken aback. “I am sure there are many in the Alienage more fit to learn from one such as you, Keeper, but surely you must have more important business here. Our Hahren has been told by now of your arrival and will be here shortly to help you.”

Merrill stood up straight, pushing herself out of her somewhat slouch with her staff. “There is nothing more important than remembering the People, for any one of us. I would see it as a blessing to teach anyone here our history, our language. _Our_ heritage.”

A murmuring went up from the crowd about them then at that, tones of awe and bewilderment flittering to Varric’s ears. Martin, still flanking Merrill’s side, his hands still hovering near his hammers cast her a long, questioning look. _Hey, she managed to sound like royalty and throw off Martin. Wonder how she managed that._

The crowd parted then, elves backing up respectfully to make way as an elder moved through them. This elf hobbled slowly, one arm held by a child. As they approached his stitched green tunic and kindly eyes stood out amongst the run down and frankly poverty stricken garb and faces of the rest of the Alienage elves. As he and his companion limped up beside the washerwoman she turned, half bowed as she had for Merrill.

The elderly elf cast a warm smile the woman’s way. “Thank you, Hana, for giving our newest resident a proper welcome.” His voice was as warm as his smile.

He turned to Merrill. “I greet you, Merrill of Sabrae. Your Keeper sent word of your arrival, though I must admit, I had expected you much sooner. I am Eilian, Hahren to this Alienage. I see you have already acquainted yourself with our _Vhenadahl_.”

“I… Yes. It’s beautiful.” Merrill nearly stumbled over her words, her nervousness evidently back in force. For his part the Hahren only smiled in response.

“That it is, that it is.” He glanced first at Varric, then Martin. “Forgive me. Though I expected and prepared for your coming, I did not know you would be accompanied. Might I know the names of your companions?”

“Yes… of course. This is Mall- I mean, Martin, and that’s Varric.”

Martin grunted with a quick incline of his head. Varric bowed theatrically as he rattled off his customary introduction. “Varric Tethras, of House Tethras. Storyteller and professional younger brother.”

“I am grateful to you both,” the Hahren Eilian answered. “For seeing the newest member of our community here.”

Hana perked up at that. “She has come to stay? To live with us?”

Eilian chuckled quietly. “Yes child, she has. And so,” he stood up straighter, allowed his wizened voice to rise louder than Varric thought him capable of projecting. “You will all have plenty of time to make her welcome, and to give voice to your questions. So please, allow me to show her to her new home in peace.”

The members of the Alienage one by one turned away, moved back to their conversations and haggling. Anna took hold of her skirt in her hands and curtsied low, until she sped off at a long suffering gesture from Eilian.

The young boy remained, his hand still clutched in Eilian. The old Hahren patted the boy’s head, gestured him away. The boy moved off a few paces but remained at the ready, face impassive.

The Hahren held his arm out to Merrill, which she took. “I thank you, Merrill Sabrae. It is not far.” He glanced back at Martin and Varric. “Your charge has been delivered. She is safe here, with us.”

“Could...” Merrill interjected before Varric could. “Could they come see where I’ll live? I hope...” she looked back at each of them in turn, expression apprehensive. “So they can visit.”

Varric couldn’t help but smile at the girl. “The Hanged Man can wait a few more minutes… especially if you want to come with once you’ve settled.”

Merrill met his eyes before looking down at the cobbled street. “I don’t think… I’m ready for more adventure today, Varric. Though it’s very nice of you to offer. And I’d like to!” She looked up in alarm. “In the future. Tomorrow even, maybe. I’d like to get to know you all better. I just...”

At ‘get to know you all,’ her eyes flicked to Martin for the briefest of seconds. So fast that Varric wasn’t even sure Merrill realized that she’d looked his way. _Well, well._ Another observation he filed away for later.

“You’ve dealt with a whole barrel of new shit today, Daisy, I get it,” Varric assured her. “You’ll have plenty of chances to come to the Hanged Man. I mean, _I’m_ there pretty much every day. I’m sure Mallet and me can drop by from time to time too, right?” he glanced over at Martin, curious as to what the dour man’s response would be.

Martin didn’t even look his way, didn’t seem the least bit perturbed that Varric had all but volunteered him. He just inclined his head in that quiet way of his at the young First. “Aye, that I will.”

“Hell, I’m free Tuesday,” Varric continued. “I could swing on by, show you some more of the sights.” _Without that damned staff to draw too much attention. Maybe a hood too – hide the tats and the ears._

“Tuesday?” Merrill asked.

Varric very nearly sighed. “The day after tomorrow.”

“I would like that very much,” Merrill practically beamed, though with still a hint of shyness.

The Hahren seemed surprised at the exchange. “You must accept my apologies, Messeres Martin and Tethras. I had thought you mercenaries, not friends.”

Varric shrugged, flashed a toothy grin. “Can’t we be both?”

The Hahren’s brow shot up at that. But he too shrugged, though with far less vigor than the dwarf. He pulled at Merrill’s arm still locked through his. “This way, Merrill.”

They moved together through the market, Martin still mindful of the elves about them, as wary as he was in the city proper. Varric followed the two elves without comment as they moved along the edge of the Market, towards a scattering of houses built out of the city’s sand colored walls.

They stopped at a two storied thing, a closed shop window protruding from the bottom. Alongside the window ran a rickety, dark wooden staircase that led up to the second floor loft area. The Hahren gestured, allowed Merrill to help him up the stairs towards the door. As they reached it and Eilian went inside, Merrill turned and waved to them.

As she too disappeared into the upper floor, Varric turned to see the young elf boy that had clung to the Hahren so carefully. Varric waved at him, headed over.

The boy looked at him quizzically. “What you want?” He asked, without hint of respect or concern.

Varric sized him up, made a swift decision. “Kid, how would you like a job?”

  


Later, as he and the taciturn Martin made their way out of the Alienage towards a night of drinking he thought on his newest acquisition.

_Hope I haven’t made a mistake. Better one of their own keep an eye on her than one of mine. Though I guess I just made a new ‘friend.’_

He wouldn’t normally hire a watcher, a protector, for someone he had just met couple days ago. He wouldn’t normally care so much about some Dalish elf, lost and exiled in Kirkwall’s Alienage.

Seemed Varric couldn’t help a lot of things, when it came to his new friend Daisy.


	15. XIV: Of The Curative Nature of Alcohol

**XIV: Of The Curative Nature of Alcohol**

Carver swayed in his seat, trying to think while the world rolled around him.

“I heard your uncle’s gambling again,” Varric muttered from across their table in the Hanged Man. The place was loud and uproarious, the night in full swing, but Carver didn’t care. Wasn’t feeling it.

 _I’ve… forgotten something. Aveline. The guard? What the… bl-… bloody hells._ He shook his head to clear his thoughts - and when that didn’t work he took another drag from his mug.

“Gamlen gambling? It’s hardly a gamble to guess he is,” Nell laughed loudly. “Gamble… gambit. It’s his gambit, to gamble, his game -” she hiccuped loudly.

They’d been at it all day, and all evening – though Carver had only really picked up when Martin and Varric had joined them – unfortunately without Merrill.

 _Maker, the way she smiles._ Carver grinned stupidly, at the thought of her tattoos crinkling under her grin. Another thought flitted by without prompting, that of her breasts heaving under him as she smiled a different sort of smile. He shivered ever so slightly at that.

“You’re uncle’s game is to gamble, sure,” Varric continued. He’d had half as many drinks as Carver had had, Carver figured, so that would make him about as drunk as the human when you took into account his dwarven form. Yet the stupid bastard didn’t have the good sense to totter in his chair, didn’t slur even the littlest bit. _The midget never shows his drink, just talks everybody’s ear off. Not much change from him sober, that._

“But he’s playing with the wrong people this time,” Varric pressed, his own mug ignored. “People he’s played with before, practically paragons of virtue in the criminal world. The Red Iron, Josren One-Eye, Athenril - “

“Athenril!” his sister spat, her good humor gone. She struggled for a moment, teetering, as she noisily gathered a large wad of phlegm in her mouth. After a moment she released it right where her mug had sat not a moment before. She took an incredibly long draft of her drink before slamming it back on that unappealing impact point. “You’ve got a _straaaange_ idea of parag _an_ , you beautiful little man, if you count _Athenril_ as one of them.” She mumbled something into her mug.

“What was that?” Martin asked from Nell’s left, marking the first time he’d spoken in hours. “Who is this, ‘Athenril?’” The words seemed to crawl out of the scarred warrior’s mouth, then tumble and slide down his face so slowly that even inebriated Carver noted their dulled pace.

“A filthy, sister-shagging arse-sniffing… _**cunt**_!” She accompanied the last word with another loud snort of phlegm, which she promptly spat down onto the floor.

Varric seemed taken aback. “Woah. Easy there, Hawke, I know you worked for her but - “

“Plough off, Varric. You might know every bastard from here to Hightown but you don’t know shite in this case. Bugger off it.”

If the dwarf’s jaw were to drop any lower Carver was certain he’d be chinning the floor. _Not too far for him though… heh._ Varric sat stunned for a moment before shaking it off. “Whatever, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to poke a sore spot. Point is, your Uncle’s dipping his wick in shit too deep for him to be able to pull out of if he slips. Just thought you should know.”

Nell took a sullen drink. “Consider me informed,” she muttered lucidly.

They all sat there: Martin, Carver, Varric and Nell all nursing their drinks in a now uncomfortable quiet. Usually this was when Nell would crack a joke, thump her mug, ask a question – anything to break the silence, bring life to the table. Carver waited, and drank.

To his surprise it was Varric who spoke first. “Qunari are acting up again,” the dwarf offered.

“The Qunari?” Martin asked in sudden interest as he leaned heavily onto his mug arm.

“You know…” Nell drawled. “The onesh camping near the docks. Southwise… or so...”

“Qunari… camp? In the city?” Martin was teetering, clearly lost.

“You blind? Deaf, or somethin’?” Carver interrupted, annoyed at the recalcitrant warrior. “How do ya miss… bloody Qunari?”

“Heard… something,” Martin answered. “But thought it was drunks… mad tales. I’ve not been here long.”

“It’s mad allll right,” Nell replied. “There was a storm. Proper gale, months ago.”

“Fifty days, give or… take,” Varric clarified, smarmy tone dragging over Carver’s ears.

“Sod off. This here’s my story!”

“As the lady wishes.” Varric mock bowed. _Bet he could… kiss the floor. Right easy. Heh._

“Damn right. Anywaysh… they set up camp, right near where they wrecked their ship. Right there, on the pier. Hundred Qunari -”

“More like two hundred,” Varric cut in again. “Two thirty, maybe. What friends say.”

“Shut it, shorty, or I’m taking a razor to your chest, right?”

“Anything but that!” Varric snorted, but he nestled attentively back into his seat.

“What was I on about? Oh. Guard tried to treat with ‘em, Viscount tried – bloody Templars almost made a fight, the Knight-Commander all piss and fury. Close thing, but it simmered down – cooler heads and all that. Viscount’s son ended up begging them to move to some old bailey. Now they camp there.”

The scarred veteran sat in silence, squinting at his mug, before taking a long drink. “So – they remain? For what purpose?” He asked at a snails pace - to Carver’s continued irritation.

“Nobody knows. They don’t say bugger all. They don’t really leave that old bailey of theirs, and nobody’s too keen to visit.” Nell replied amiably. “Nothing else to say, really.”

They quieted again even as the tavern roared around them. Everyone but Nell took sips, though after noting his sister’s alacrity Carver matched her gulps. She managed to kill a tankard and move on to another one. Quietly, which was strange for her. To his own stupid pride Carver kept up.

Though not as awkward as the last pause in the conversation, this one stretched for a minute. Then what felt like ten. There was only so much enjoyment Carver could get from reveling in the acrid burn of the booze he shoved down his gullet, and at managing to if not best, to at least keep up with Nell at something.

Finally the silence dragged on for too long. “Andraste’s tits. You’rea all… loushy, tonight.” The younger Hawke pushed himself to his feet, swayed as the world tilted about him. “I’m gonna go see… see what Merrill’s up to.”

“Great idea!” Varric hopped off his own chair. “I’ll be your backup, Junior. Talk you up real good.”

“Oh… noooo...” Nell slurred. “You lie… ar… Varric. You just wanna see Carver kiss dirt.” She accentuated her point with another draft from her drink.

Carver shook his head then, an act he immediately regretted as his world slid about his eyeballs. “I can… walk… jhust fine, _shister._ ”

“I say… ten silver...” Martin drawled, looking to Hawke. “That the boy does not make the door.”

“Doubt _hheee_ will,” Nell nodded dumbly. “But gots to stick wit’ family. I see you, Mart _in_ o’ High _evar_.”

“Hessarian’s… burning blade… Jus’ Martin, Hawke.” Martin whined. _Like the… bloody… shite he is._

Nell ignored him, turning sloppily to Carver with what her drunk self could conjure as a stern expression. It looked halfway between a giggle and a frown. “Go… get her, Carver. For the family. Do us proud.”

Carver snorted, turned. He caught himself on the table as he turned, his rear hitting it hard and bodily shoving it back half a pace.

“On second thought,” Varric chimed, “Maybe you should just sit down, Junior.”

“Sod off,” Carver barked, iron in his voice. “I _will_ go.”

He held for a moment, waited for everything to still. When he could see the path before him, could make out that those that were paying attention had cleared out of his way, he pushed forward.

The younger Hawke did not remember the impact, did not feel his misjudged step send him careening down onto his face. Nor did he hear the crack as his head hit plank. Luckily for him he did not hear the sound of Varric’s uproarious laughter either.

[=]

_I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t. It’s not fair, come on._

He tried, he really did. But Varric couldn’t help himself.

Another bark of laughter burst from his gut, threatened to wrench him from his seat. He hadn’t had too much – he never had _too_ much – but it was enough for some unsteadiness to nearly topple him from his perch. The amused dwarf had to cling madly with one arm to his chair as he shook with laughter that physically hurt, it was so hard.

But he couldn’t stop.

Hawke laughed at first for half a breath before she stumbled out of her own chair, stepping herself over to her fallen brother’s side.

Martin moved to follow her but he seemed even less steady on his own feet – he too clung to his chair rather than fall below. Unlike Varric, he wasn’t laughing, though a self-satisfied smirk graced his scarred mug. _Must be what a full on laugh is to him, poor guy. Missing out._

The tight packed tavern crowd had backed up at Carver’s collapse, the din of the malcontented patrons of the Hanged Man quieting as they all took stock of the sudden commotion. It only lasted a moment before they turned away and the cacophony resumed.

“Carver?” Hawke called with actual concern in her voice as she poked his fallen form. She cursed, loudly, lifted her brother a handspan off the floor before dropping him in a huff. “Martin, give us a hand.”

“Aye,” Martin responded, tried to get out of his seat. Again he slid, and again he grasped for dear life to his chair. This time he had leaned too far, committed too much – while he held fast his own weight betrayed him. Chair and human tumbled to the floor in loud, crashing heap. This time the crowd completely ignored the noise even as Martin shouted, “Maferath’s flaccid cock!”

“Oh my!” A woman’s voice, hard and heady cried from behind Varric. He turned to see the unfortunately named Marlowe of the Docks, Nora’s stand in for whenever she couldn’t make work. Or Corff’s extra hand on the rare nights when he and Nora weren’t enough to run their tavern of ill repute.

The middle aged brunette gasped in alarm, hurriedly dumping the tray and pitchers she carried on their table as she half stepped to Carver’s side. Varric immediately took advantage, grabbing one sloshing pitcher and refilling his own nearly empty mug. As Martin righted himself and placed his own cup back on the table – he’d kept it in hand all the way to the floor – Varric topped him off too. Martin nodded his way and knocked his mug on Varric’s.

“What has happened?” the woman fretted, her curves bouncing in such a way even Varric found himself leering. Not much ever tempted him away from Bianca. _Or her memory._ He wasn’t _blind,_ though.

“Hullo, Marlowe,” Hawke said. “Nora out tonight?”

“Drunk herself sick, silly girl,” Marlowe nodded. “What has happened to the poor boy?”

The tavern wench threaded a tautly muscled arm underneath Carver’s left as Hawke did the same at his right.

“Well,” Hawke muttered before bracing herself. “He – heave! - is much like our dear pasty Nora. He drank himself to the floor.”

Between the two women they managed to lift the lolling boy up. Marlowe seemed to have a better grip than Hawke as the part-time bar maid, part-time dock worker held him tight with both hands.

“The poor thing,” she said. “Where will we lay him? Though… could take him round the bend - my place is just down the way.”

 _Oh._ _ **OH.**_ Varric interrupted that thought before it could go any further. “Take him up to my room,” he offered instead, tossing his key to Hawke. That she caught it hardly surprised him, even in her tossed state. “Though if he pukes on anything, you’re cleaning it up.”

“No way in hell Varric, but I’ll see to it that he does,” Hawke bit back as they half carried, half dragged the unconscious boy around and behind him. Towards the stairs and his suite above.

Varric suddenly found himself alone with Martin, the man he knew least of all Hawke’s ragged tag-alongs.

 _Shit, I know more about Daisy after two days than I know about him in…_ he wasn’t sure. _Couple weeks? A bit more?_

_Let’s catalog: He’s ferelden. Blight veteran, usually pretty quiet. Fast bastard, good with those hammers of his. Drinks like a fish, flask was full of moonshine yesterday. Could be he actually likes that in particular, or could be he just got the cheap Ratfish shit they brew in Darktown. Seems to like Hawke, so he’s gotta have some taste – yeah, no way he actually likes that shit._

Varric realized he’d lost his thread, his thoughts had gone sideways. He shook his head to clear it, took another drink for a good measure.

_Dunno why he’d leave Ferelden_ _**after** _ _the Blight. Here for coin? Lots of shit a fighter like him could get paid to do in Kirkwall. The Red Iron’d take him. Old One-Eye’s always looking for hands – hell, if he didn’t give a shit where his coin comes from Faucher, or the Coterie – De Palma if he’s a fucking psycho._

_From what Hawke’s said he’d just hung around drinking until she picked him up… so he had some coin already. And just burnt it on booze? Drunkard? No, he’d definitely need someone higher paying than us if he had a real habit. What then?_

Varric studied the scarred man, took in his roughed up face, especially the one wicked mark that looped above his eye, down the cheek and nearly met with his mouth. Martin seemed in another world, his eyes on his mug, his hands clenched about it in a near death grip. Varric noticed then the mercenary wasn’t wearing any gloves for once – his hands were much like his face, nicked and battered in ways that made Varric’s stomach lurch. He was even missing the slightest edge to his ring finger on his left hand, the remaining bits hardly standing to his little finger. _No one gets as marked up as that without seeing serious shit and standing right up to it._

Varric had it then, the story of Martin, the hammered warrior from Ferelden.

_King’s man. A bleeding patriot. Joined the Ferelden regular army before the Blight, saw some action against… the hell do they fight usually… Orlesian loyalists. Yeah. Orlesians make great villains._

_Martin of Highever fought bravely against them, rooting out western treachery and border skirmishes. When the Blight came, Martin marched to face it too – and when the famous Teryn Loghain betrayed the ferelden King and retreated from Ostagar, Martin was one of the few survivors._

_The seasoned warrior fought through darkspawn and traitor alike to make it back to the forces of the liege loyalists – the only survivor of the battle, aside from the Heroes, of course._

_His hammers brought death to all who stood with the traitors, and when the insurrection was crushed he fought for the new King…_

_Wait. Why would he leave then? Hmm. Gotta change some things._

_Martin was a King’s man who followed under the famous Teryn Loghain. When Loghain committed his dastardly treachery Martin was in his army – and fooled, like many others._

_He fought the supposed Warden–backed rebels, only ceasing when the full extent of Loghain’s evil was revealed and the new King was crowned._

_Martin fought bravely for his new liege, eager to wash away his dishonor – all the way to the great final battle._

_When it was all over, Martin found he could not live with what he’d done – so he banished himself to Kirkwall._

_Shit, that’s not enough. Oh, his lady love was part of the contingent who died at Ostagar so Martin felt a great sense of loss yada yada… shit. I’m not on my game today._

“What are you gawking at, Varric?” Martin’s voice brought Varric back to the present – revealing to Varric that he had been staring dead-eyed at the ferelden.

 _Who needs bullshit when honesty’ll do?_ “Just thinking of your history, Mallet. Your backstory, if you’ll excuse the expression. I find myself more than a little curious.”

Martin simply grunted in response.

“Come on,” Varric insisted. “I know you’re not _that_ hammered. You can hear an implied question.”

“And I did not answer...” Martin said, enunciating to an infuriating degree, as slowly as possible. “Does that tell you something, dwarf?”

“Sourpuss,” Varric complained. “Well, we gotta talk about _something_. So, you got a thing for elves, or what? You’re pretty cozy with the Dalish.”

Martin’s already present frown somehow dipped even lower.

Varric held his hands up before the man could respond to that. “Fine, consider the subject tabled. How about places – what’s something different in Kirkwall to Ferelden? Like, something little, that bugs you more than it should.”

The frown remained plastered to his face as the human took another sip. “I find that… there is less comraderie here. In Ferelden, like as not you’ll be offered a pint by someone within bell’s time. Here? The only one who’s ever offered me a drink was Hawke, and she’s ferelden.”

“Well,” Varric explained. “You’re ferelden. That doesn’t really cozy you up to Kirkwallers, especially lately. We took on quite a few of you when the Blight hit, and suddenly within the year we have hundreds upon hundreds of foreigners desperate enough to do just about anything.” Varric frowned at that. “Didn’t really hurt anybody up in Hightown, but down here? Supply met demand. Jobs got scarcer, poor folk got poorer – and those lucky enough to work found themselves competing for lower pay.”

Martin thoughtfully sipped his drink at that. “So are Kirkwaller’s typically more hospitable with their fellow natives?”

“Not really. We’re more independent here, don’t really come together except over really big shit. Though we definitely tend to insult each other less than we do fereldens.”

Before Varric could broach another painfully mundane topic the table rocked suddenly. He turned to see Hawke returned, knocking the table as she collapsed into her chair. She grabbed at her mug and drank greedily.

“Well,” Hawke said. “Put the brother to bed, tucked as safe as you please – thanks Varric – alls right… as rain.” She quickly drained her mug and belched loudly. “What’d I miss?”

“We were...” Martin attempted before listing into silence.

“Discussing the culinary merits of rat,” Varric interrupted, not really willing to discuss the ‘ferelden issue’ with a soused Hawke.

“I’m partial to it smoked, myself,” Hawke nodded seriously. “Though it’d be downright palatable if it was steamed into a tasty stew.”

Martin slammed his mug on to the table, startling both Varric and Hawke. “Agreed,” he almost bellowed. “This backwater needs… stew.” His head lolled as he settled in his chair.

The roar of the crowd rose up then in rough tones, as a crash and clatter echoed over the din. Varric swiveled to see Corff duck behind the bar as a bottle just missed him and shattered along the wall behind.

“DON’T YOU **FUCKING** INTERRUPT,” a man in striped leathers bellowed, leaning over the bar. “THIS WENCH AND ME HAVE BUSINESS.”

A woman, rivaini in complexion with curves like hell sauntered up to the man. “We’ve got business like you’ve got balls, Maggie.” Her voiced was raised, but not to the level the man’s was.

The man whirled on her, face red. His angry spittle was visible even half-way across the tavern. “YOU FUCKING WHORE,” he screamed, lunging at her with a clumsy right hook.

It was so fast Varric was hardly sure it even happened at all. She side stepped, pulled the man’s arm down and kicked him hard in the nethers. He went down hard, squealing.

She stepped over his form, obscured by the crowd, and leaned up against the bar. Corff stood back up and she spoke, though Varric couldn’t hear her over the sounds of the tavern. “The pirate!” he heard Hawke gasp beside him.

The pirate’s conversation with Corff barely lasted ten seconds before striped leathers was back on his feet, the glint of steel in his hand. Corff’s cowardly drop alerted the rivaini and she twirled. Striped leathers hit the bar hard, his dagger dropping in his apparently too light grip. The woman grabbed his head and slammed it with force onto the counter top. The impact made Varric wince but she didn’t so much as pause – she grabbed the now silent man by the back and threw him to the floor.

Turning to the crowd she bellowed, “A round for whoever throws this sod out the door!”

Eager cheers and eager hands reached for the man on the floor. Hawke was up in a flash, nearly capsizing their table as she cheered. “Bloody brilliant!” was all she said as she bounded to the bar, stooping to assist taking out the trash.

“What is she… on about?” Martin asked. “What just happened?”

Varric glanced at the man – he listed, blinking, trying to look at the bar but was clearly unable to really focus on it. “That pirate woman who’s been around a few times just kicked someone’s ass real good,” Varric smirked. “Guess Hawke’s a fan.”

“A fan?”

Varric shot the ferelden a withering look. “A fan, you know, when you like someone you don’t really know. Like, you’d be a fan of that king of yours.”

Martin choked back a laugh so strained it sounded like a cry. He immediately lifted his mug back to his lips and drank, drank until the thing was empty and he let it slip from his hands.

“Hey, you alright Mallet?” Varric asked, concerned.

The man muttered something before dropping his head onto the table, pillowed in his arms. His shoulders shook a moment before they steadied. Deep, even breathing.

Martin was asleep.

Varric had hardly turned back as the table rocked – again to Hawke sitting back down. Her face was tight, nearly pale.

“So, how’d you like meeting a pirate?” Varric asked.

Hawke grimaced. “Well, she bought me a round, and when I asked her if she had any treasure buried she just leaned forward and told me she was digging _my_ chest.”

Varric guffawed. “What? She said that to you? For real?”

“Did I stutter?” Hawke barked back, no longer slurring even a bit. “You know what? Sod this. I’m going home. Hope you have fun with Martin.”

She nearly tossed her chair away as she marched out – _Maker’s breath, she’s_ _ **pissed**_ **.** When one particularly unsteady bar patron stepped in her path she practically tossed him too.

Varric could only sit and watch her go, dumbstruck.

_What the hell did I say?_

[=]

Martin moaned in pain, coughed and spat out dirt that his moaning allowed into his mouth. Bone dry earth that clung to his tongue and teeth.

_Not dirt. Sand._

He opened his eyes even as he spat over and again, dragging his tongue between his teeth to free every bit of grit that stuck to the moistness. He raised his head from the dark sand, looked up.

Pain pounded at his temples as he took in the wasteland before him – no, not before him. The wasteland stretched in all directions, dark and scorched as if a great cataclysm had once burned the land clean.

Storm clouds gathered above, thunder echoed ominously. Martin stood, looked down at his tattered armor.

 _I feel as if I have been here before,_ he mused. _Though I have never seen a desert._

He shook his head to clear the familiar fugue of alcohol as best he could, though pain and nausea still beat and clutched at him in equal measure. He turned, taking in the strange place he found himself in.

Emptiness. Wherever he turned, the lone and level sands stretched far away.

He realized he could not be here, not _truly_ – he last remembered drinking in the Hanged Man. Discussion and carousing. _This is a dream, a conjuring of the Fade._

He had never seen the desert. Never even pictured it – not until he dreamt of it.

 _This is no memory of mine, no dream space I formed or nurtured._ He felt a sudden sense of dread, of steadily encroaching fear. _This place comes from without._

The once-Warden steadied himself, shoved his hand under the shirt that just cleared the half-plate he wore. Even in the Fade, even here, he found the ring he sought. He clutched it, remembered Her words.

 _ **That which dwells in the Fade has power here… but so do we. Those with the Gift…**_ A flash of a playful, mocking smile seemed to form in the sand before him as her voice whispered at the edge of thought. _**Even those with weak and ability as yours. Though… ‘tis strange you found me so quickly, here.**_

The sand suddenly scattered around him, stirred by a silent wind. Instinctively he covered his eyes, covered his face with an arm – _willed_ that he would leave this place. _**Do not follow me.**_

He banished the thought of her from his mind, pictured the open road along the Highway that stretched south of Amaranthine, not a dozen leagues from the Waking Sea. He saw the wild berry bushes that lined that great road, the rolling hills of mud and earth – grass verdant under a fresh rain.

 _Rain._ Martin felt droplets of moisture strike his bare arm, his exposed head – he lifted his limb and gaze.

He stood in the desert still, rain falling from the sky. There was no road, no verdant grass – but in the distance he saw a structure standing tall. Through the moisture and he could not discern its shape, could not even make out how far it was.

The rain was warm against his skin, the earth cold. Within him, nameless dread rose as he stared at the thing in the distance.

He was afraid, and he knew not why.

Martin took a step, a terrible, painful step forward – towards the shape.

The sand gave way beneath his foot and he fell, painfully dry, stars blinding him as his head met hard wood.

He lay on the floor of his unlit room in the Hanged Man, head throbbing, stomach turning – and still he remembered a dark form in the desert.

The ferelden exile shivered.


	16. XV: An Introduction to Lowtown, Kirkwall

The dreams were terrible.

They were not her usual nightmares – she was far enough away now that the demon of Sundermount could not ply at her defenses, could not color her once peaceful sleep with his dark presence.

_Once peaceful, though not always. Once peaceful, before the Mirror._

No, these dreams were flitted things of darkness and torment, of blood and sand and storm. Kirkwall was a place of pain, Merrill knew, from what she’d been told.

_A place of slaves._

She awoke with a start, a cold sweat coating her body and weighing down her bedroll – one of her few remaining possessions. A gift from Master Ilen.

She shook that thought away before it formed, buried the sorrow with the scarce bits of dream that still tugged at her mood and threatened to start her day off all wrong.

Instead she took in the place that was hers – a last gift from the Keeper… and perhaps a first from the Alienage’s Hahren, Eilian.

Though the elves here called him ‘Hahren’ he spoke more as a Keeper, one who showed the others the way. _What is a Keeper to them? A Hahren?_ A Hahren was an elder, one who teaches – but not one who leads.

_They are lost without us. Without_ _our_ _language_. Not for the first time Merrill wondered at Marethari’s reasoning, at her priorities – and by extension, that of the other clans.

_The elves here revere us, and they are made only lesser without our aid. Without joining us, as Pol did_. _Why don’t we have more contact? We could do so much good for them. For all of the People._

She pondered that thought as she pushed herself out of her dampened cocoon, stepped off the bed lightly. The young elf stretched, loosening muscles tightened in sleep, then moved to the pack she had set on the floor. She sat quickly beside it, as she had countless times in her life, and withdrew her foot wraps from within.

As she moved through the familiar routine of wrapping them about her ankle and arch she took in her home.

It was a meager thing. The little room she sat in now connected to the main one without any sort of barrier or doorway – it was hardly a room at all. _More of a corner. A nook, or perhaps a cranny._ _A hollow even._

Her floor was of thick wood, surprisingly strong and sturdy – she hadn’t heard anything of anybody below. She’d tried experimentally tapping her staff on the floor after the Hahren had first settled her here and he assured her no sound would penetrate that thick wood.

If she was to experiment with the shard of Mirror she had, to cleanse it and maybe… perhaps recreate the whole thing…

What she planned would take a whole lot of power. A whole lot of time, and a whole lot of magic. At least she wouldn’t bother those she shared a building with in the process.

The rest of the structure did not hold up to the standards of that fine floor – the walls and ceiling were of some strange, clay like material that resembled sandstone more than anything else. It was stained and multi-hued with all manner of marks and debris, dirt and scuff. To most anyone else such a view would be a filthy eye sore. Merrill however found it strangely similar to ruins such as Sundermount, to ancient structures marked by time and those that had once inhabited them. It charmed her, if in a bit of a melancholic way.

Having finished with her wraps she pulled on her britches, lacing the leather leg guards over top them. Though she doubted she needed them now, they were a familiar weight that comforted her in the unfamiliar place she found herself in. As she tugged her pullover on her eyes once again turned to the room.

The other most obvious feature of her home, save for the sheer emptiness of it beside her cot and pack, were the horrid burrows that Hahren Eilian had named as rat holes.

At her obvious revulsion he had promised a rat catcher just as soon as he could find one – what he meant by that Merrill didn’t know, but she hoped it was soon. She had heard the creatures scurrying as she had drifted off to sleep, could almost have sworn that she had seen the nose of one watching her in the dark.

She did not like rats.

A knock on her door sounded from the main room. She started, nearly jumped, though the knock itself was a gentle thing.

_I suppose I should answer it,_ she thought _. That is what I’m supposed to do when people knock, right?_ As she reached the door, grasped its handle, she faltered. _Who could it be? Is it normal to just answer the door? Do I knock back, let them know I know they’re there? Oh, what if I do something wrong_?

“Lady Merrill?” A painfully young voice asked, muffled through the wood.

“Yes?” She replied nervously, not completely managing to eliminate the waver in her voice. “What is it?”

“There’s some humans here...” the voice asked timidly. “They say they want to see you.”

Merrill leaned against the door, suddenly too aware that she was now in a human city. Sure, the small portion allotted to the elves, but still. A city of humans. Of the Chantry. Of Templars. Her hands clutched at the wood, unthinking, as her heart raced.

“Who… who is it?” She asked, no braver now than the child. “Do you know who they are?”

She heard a soft thud against the door, then a silence for a beat. She heard her questions repeated by the child, muffled and stilted. Before he could finish a fresh voice interrupted.

“Oh sod it, run along kid. Merrill, it’s us. Your friends in this wonderful shitehole of a town. Wait, Varric’s not here. No need to be polite. This _miserable_ shitehole of a town. Only proper word for it. Willye let us in?”

Her heart sped even quicker, though the looming fear subsided. She undid the latch, fumbling with the lock for a moment before throwing the door open to the world. Merrill had to squint as the sunlight suddenly flooded her hovel, though the former First felt it only half as bright as the smile Hawke was throwing down at her.

“Right-o,” Hawke chirped, stepping past Merrill with a swagger. The pretty woman turned a sweeping gaze through the little room, her eyes frowning. She was dressed much as she had been at Sundermount – a thick leather jacket graced her shoulders, though now it was not so tightly laced as on the Mount. Her dark trousers had small plates of metal tied around different parts of her leg - her shins, knees, and thighs – shielding the front at least from direct attack. These metal increments were dull and battered, though devoid of any stain.

Martin followed her, one gloved hand gripping his temple, his eyes so sunken it looked as if they would fall back into his skull. He nodded at Merrill, wincing at the movement of his head. “Merrill,” he greeted as he shut the door behind him. In stark contrast to Hawke’s leather Martin still wore a metal plate on his torso – one that went all round and tied together under his arms. He too had metal bits stuck to various parts of him, though in a lot more places than the woman he accompanied. Metal on his forearms, metal on his elbows, metal on his legs, even capping his boots! He seemed more metal than man, almost, and while his armor was both dirtier and more damaged than Hawke’s it still held a slight sheen. _A finer metal than Hawke’s steel?_ Merrill wondered she had not noticed before.

Merrill could hardly contain her excitement at the alien, if now familiar visitors. “Oh, you came to visit me! So soon! And I don’t have anything for you.” She looked about the room, suddenly frantic. “The Hahren said he would find me a chair, a table – oh there’s no where for you to sit! Wait, the cot! I’ll be right back!” She shouted her last words in realization as she made to dash to fetch her only furniture.

Hawke grabbed her before she could and held her fast. “Don’t you worry that silly head of yours, Daisy,” the woman drawled. “I was a farm girl once – well, still am, what with the animals I share a house with. I swear I’ve stepped in more filth since I moved in with Gamlen than when I slept in any barn. Even Carver’s taking after him, the clod.” She gestured a hand to the dusty floor as she released Merrill’s arm. “Practically the Viscount’s palace in comparison.” She sat heavily, crossing her legs.

Merrill followed suit, though she noticed Martin did not. He leaned against the wall by the door, his fingers pushed so hard into his temple the tips whitened with force. The man groaned quietly and pulled out a flask, downing a quick drag.

_I wonder what it is he’s drinking. Could it be_ _mavash_ _? It couldn’t be, he has far too small a bottle for it. Do humans even have mavash? He was drinking quite a bit when we first met. Is he really so thirsty all the time?_

She was shaken out of her reverie by fingers snapping in front of her. She nearly leapt back in shock.

“Good to see the same thing works on elves,” Hawke said amiably, grinning. “I had asked how you’re settling in, but now I’m more curious as to what about my compatriot has you so enthralled.”

Martin glanced at her under his bracing hand, still holding the flask in the other.

Merrill reddened, looked down. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.”

Hawke leaned forward, grinning conspiratorially. “Dressing him down by eye, ey?” She whispered, deepening Merrill’s blush. Hawke continued without pause, leaning back and resuming her normal volume. “More as like to get a taste of that, right? I wouldn’t recommend it. Right proper swill.”

Merrill gaped in astonishment even as Martin answered. His voice was tired, thoroughly unamused. “Am I to be swill now, to be sampled and judged wanting? _Maker_ , Hawke, I did not brave the sun in my condition for this kind of tripe.”

At the sound of her name Hawke pushed at the floor with her hands, turning herself sideways to face both elf and man while keeping her criss-crossed seat. “Come now, Martin, don’t get your knickers in a knacker. We were discussing the truly interesting thing about you – the mystery of the drink you are shoveling down your gullet as we speak. You’d think last night would’ve taught you temperance, but alas.”

Martin promptly shoveled more of the drink down his gullet, wincing and closing his eyes. “It keeps the light tolerable, even if the noise still aches.”

“Is it medicine?” Merrill asked, confused. “Are you sick? I’m not very good at healing magic, but the Keeper did teach me enough to aid the Clan. I could help… maybe.”

Hawke threw back her head and laughed, drawing another loud groan from Martin.

Even as Martin swore Hawke was apologizing. “Sorry, sorry, I sympathize Martin, truly I do.” She turned her attention fully back to Merrill. “You could say it’s a medicine, though a right shite one. The kind that makes you worse, not better.”

Martin grumbled so quietly Merrill could only just pick up his words. “It drowns out the dreams.”

Hawke continued laughing – _did she hear him?_ Merrill doubted it. Human ears were not as keen as elven, clearly.

“But what is it?” Merrill asked, finally curious enough that it overrode her nervousness. “Is it _mavash_? That doesn’t make you worse, though. Why would you drink something that makes you worse? I’ve never seen anyone before you carry such a small bottle, and made of metal? Do humans make everything out of metal? And… I’m sorry, I… I’m just wondering.”

“I do not know… _mavash_ ,” Martin responded slowly, “Though the word is familiar. What I drink now is some horrible whiskey that I suppose Corff must have left to stew untopped in the rain. It would explain the generosity of his price, as well as the prevailing taste of boot leather.”

“’Boot leather?’ Sounds right fantastic for one of Corff’s brews.” Hawke leaned back, extending a hand to Martin. Sighing, he passed her the flask. The woman took an exaggerated sniff then knocked back a swig. She visibly rolled the drink around between her cheeks before swallowing.

Her face lit up. “It really does taste of varnish and leather. _And_ the burn is on point. How much did he charge you?”

“Three half silver for a jug.”

Hawke whistled in response, looking down at the flask appreciatively. “He must have done something bloody evil to that jug, make no mistake, and I wouldn’t put it past him to piss in the regular still. For that price I will be content to pretend at fair play.”

Curiosity, already piqued at the sight of Martin’s unknown drink, now rose exponentially within Merrill at Hawke’s approval. She had no clue what whiskey was, but from Hawke’s mention of burning it couldn’t be too far from _mavash_. “May I...” Merrill began. “May I try some?”

“From what I know the Dalish are not used to such spirits,” Martin offered blithely. “Ale’s more the flavor as I understand it.”

Hawke’s eye’s darted to Martin, a look of concern flashing through them, before a mischievous smirk formed on her face. Unfortunately for Merrill her own eyes were glued to the flask. The flask Hawke then handed to her.

“Just a sip,” Hawke warned, her voice reluctant – as if her advice stemmed from responsibility, rather than desire.

The former First, sat upon her floor, took to heart the tone and not the words.

The stuff burned as it hit her tongue, its horrid acrid taste scorching her throat as she inhaled through her nose. She spluttered, swallowed, then choked – half of her ill-advised mouthful clawed painfully down her esophagus while the other half hacked its way back out between her teeth.

Merrill coughed, shivering as the burn continued. It seemed to settle in her stomach, light it ablaze, forcing from her a dry retch. _By the Dread Wolf! What is this foul drink?_

Hawke was chuckling even as she took the flask from the still spluttering Merrill. “You handled that better than I thought you would,” she commented as she passed the flask back to Martin.

“I don’t understand,” Merrill replied, voice ragged from her still aching throat. “Why anyone would willingly drink such a thing. It’s horrible!”

“You feel that blazing warmth in your belly?” Hawke asked, cocking her head. “That’s why.”

“It hurts,” Merrill rasped. “ _M_ _avash_ warms. That stuff…. it’s like someone lit a campfire within me. It’s too much.”

“One adjusts in time,” Martin said from his perch, taking a small sip of the now completely unalluring and horribly revolting flask.

“You work your way up to it, usually,” Hawke added. “But alcohol to Martin and I, well… it’s like our second trade. But enough on that, we didn’t come here to poison you. You settled in? Liking your new home?”

Merrill glanced about the fine floor and the shoddy walls, tried to form an opinion on a place she didn’t know. “The shadows are longer in a house than an aravel, but the floor is very thick.”

Hawke cocked an eyebrow, glancing down in bemusement. “So it is. Well I’m sure you’ll have far more insight as your time spent here has stretched past one evening, am I right? Right, so down to it then – to the marrow of our visit as it were. I’ve got a little job I’ve been asked to do, not too difficult. Some merchant wants some muscle for half a day to put the fear of the Maker into somebody. Varric’s good at spreading my name around, and so am I – this fellow’s offering a whole sovereign for a couple hours of looking tough, tops. Want to tag along? Martin and me could probably handle it, but I’d rather have a third set of eyes when his are as muddled as they are at the moment.”

Martin snorted in indignation as Hawke leaned forward and added in a mock whisper, “And between you and me he’s right shite company right now. So – how bout it? See the town with your new mates, show the people how tough they breed you Dalish, even earn a little coin in the mix? I couldn’t possibly arrange a better first day in Kirkwall.”

Merrill found herself perplexed. _Me? Put fear into somebody?_ “Why me?” She asked, genuinely curious. “I’m not exactly very scary… I’m more scared, than anything. I mean, I suppose magic can be scary but I’d rather not use it – I mean, I very much enjoy magic but – we, that is, the Clan, have had trouble with Templars before. I wouldn’t want to face them, not with what they can do, and besides -”

“Enough, enough -” Hawke interrupted before Merrill could go any further. As she was wont to do around her new human friends, Merrill burst into yet another blush and dropped her gaze downwards.

“Enough,” Hawke took her shoulder. Her grip was firm, but not aggressive. Merrill found it oddly soothing, enough to look back up from her hands. “No need to get all in a tuss about it. Varric got dragged along to Merchant Guild business by Bartrand – his brother. A right arse. Carver, well, Carver’s not exactly fit for duty. While he holds his liquor well as a brother of mine should, he has trouble letting it go come morning - _especially_ when he’s grabbed such a handful as he did last night.” Hawke chuckled, smirking. “Funny, that. He was actually on his way to visit you when he hit floor.”

Merrill’s head whirled. “He was on his way to visit… me? Last night? Shouldn’t he have been asleep? And he really wanted to visit me?”

Hawke smirk boadened. “Aye, that he did. Though yes, he should have been asleep – and he promptly fell. Asleep. Hah!” She slapped her knee, and though he winced at Hawke’s noise even Martin chuckled. Merrill only smiled thinly, sure she was missing some part of the apparent joke.

“Anyways, and well I only know one other person who could help us – Aveline. And while she’s right fantastic at the whole ‘scaring folks shitless’ thing she’s generally pretty terrible with the whole ‘breaking the law’ thing. Bloody inconvenient that, but she insists on being the one honest Guardswoman in Kirkwall. That leaves us with you – though that’s not to say you’re the last choice! Far from it. You’ll make a first rate… er, thug… mark my words.”

It sounded foolish. Possibly dangerous, even pointless. Merrill wasn’t even sure she needed coin – the Alienage elves shared with their own, and she was one of them now. _Maybe it would be better to begin with sharing back?_

“Alright,” she agreed, smiling timidly. “I will be the best thug I can.”

Hawke clapped her hands together, dragging another pained groan from Martin. “Splendid! It’s a proper party, then. Today’s looking better already.”

“Only… I… well...”

“Yes?” Hawke asked, grinning from ear to ear, bouncing back in her seat. “No need to be shy, Merrill.”

“What’s a thug?”

[=]

Their journey took them back to the market that had so awed Merril the day before. She still found herself amazed at the sheer number of sounds, smells and people who surrounded them on all sides. Dwarves, humans, even a horned qunari or two shouted and pushed and jostled and bartered. She heard words in common, words she recognized as dwarven, and languages she had never heard before all shouted as she passed through the crowded square and made their way into one of Kirkwall’s many vein-like side streets. She had stopped for a moment, eyes searching for the one people she knew best – her own. There were city elves, in smaller number than the dwarves – but they did not shout and barter. Those few who stood behind their own market stalls subdued and near silent. Those in the crowd were even harder to spot – their clothes were more worn, more devoid of color than even the lowliest of humans. They did not shove as so many others did – they walked with heads bowed, scurrying when any took notice. Most followed someone else. _Are they_ s _laves? But Varric said -_

Her thoughts were interrupted as an arm grabbed her, dragging her into the alley. She yelped in fear, too startled to do anything else at first. Before she could push the grabber away she met their eyes – and stopped at the familiar cornflower blues.

Gone was Hawke’s earlier mirth – instead her face was set in a state of stern professionalism. “Sorry, but don’t stand still like that. Especially with that,” Hawke gestured towards Merrill’s face – my _vallaslin –_ and then towards her ears. “You stand right out. Best case someone picks your pocket. Worst case someone comes after you. Guard’s liable to look the other way if that happens.”

Merrill nodded in only partial understanding. _Why would anyone come after me? What could they want me for? It’s not obvious I have the Gift, Hawke insisted I leave my staff behind…_ Hawke suddenly let her go and Merrill stumbled, made to lean on the staff she carried at near all times of the day.

It was a close thing – she nearly tumbled fully to the ground, only barely managing to catch her balance after her initial blind compensation.

Hawke shook her head, as if shaking loose a thought, before muttering so quietly Merrill was sure it wasn’t for her. “ _Standing out, bloody dangerous._ ”

Martin stepped up from behind Hawke, touched a hand to the woman’s shoulder. Just as she turned and he spoke a loud crash sounded from behind – Merrill, already jumpy from Hawke’s manhandling of her nearly leapt out of her own skin.

She darted a quick glance to see some sort of handcart upended in the street. A human in a stained green tunic lay on the ground beside, unmoving, as two masked dwarfs stood over him. Both had massive axes, one in hand and the other strapped to his back. The dwarf with the undrawn axe turned to regard Merrill.

“Bloody hell,” Hawke swore, grabbing Merrill’s shoulder. As she pulled the stunned elf away she shouted over her shoulder, painfully close to the sensitive elven ear. “Sorry gents, fine day today and all that, we don’t see shite.”

“Smart,” the unarmed dwarf drawled through his mask, a fascinating black thing with twin yellow axes stitched on it. The armed one swung a booted foot into the center of the stained green tunic, forcing its wearer to curl up instinctively.

Merrill saw nothing else as Hawke dragged her down the alley, past two other fleeing humans, and through a narrow passageway. Within moments they were back in another alley, this time safely empty, and Hawke released Merrill yet again.

“Right close, that,” Hawke breathed, still close to Merrill’s ringing ear.

“Who were they?” Merrill asked, heart racing from two frights in a row. “What were they doing? What did they want?”

“Carta,” Martin said simply, hands clutching at his hammers now instead of his head.

“As to what they were doing,” Hawke continued. “None of our ploughing business, that’s what they were doing. We don’t tangle with the Carta.”

“They die as anyone else,” Martin answered, tone far too casual for his words.

Hawke shot an icy glare his way. “Course they do. Then their three-hundred friends come back, feed you your arms for dinner and gut your family. Even Athenril stays out of their way, all while she competes with ‘em. Here in Kirkwall you don’t fuck with the Coterie, the Carta, or the Templars. Everyone else is small change, like to get trampled.”

Martin winced at her tirade, a hand going back to his forehead. He waved his other hand dismissively. “It does not matter. Let us meet this client of yours and get this damn job done. It’s as if there are hot pokers in my brain.” He punctuated that last statement with another draft from his flask.

“Right,” Hawke replied, turning back to Merrill. “Well, turns out you’re getting quite the tour – you’ve already met some of the local players. Next you’ll get some sights – the Broken Bridge, then Hightown. Right pretty place, if you ignore the shite its all built upon.”

“It sounds… interesting,” Merrill responded hesitantly. “Though this Broken Bridge… how will we cross it? It can’t be passed over if it’s broken, can it?”

“Oh you can cross,” Hawke answered, smiling conspiratorially. “It ain’t broke like that… well it is and isn’t. The name fits. It’s the only proper way for folks of our destitution to pass into that town of wind sniffers. Guards hardly ever watch it, and when they do – they only charge a few copper. Word is we can thank the Coterie for that. They keep the real grease flowing.”

“I must say, Hawke,” Martin piped in. “You’re right good at talking up this ‘shite hole of a town,’ as you put it.” He wiped at his brow once, then dropped his hand – finally releasing his near permanent grasp on his head. “I find myself actually curious to see how this bridge earned its name.”

Hawke grinned as the man slathered her with praise, only to frown as he finished. At ‘earned its name,’ her head bobbed backwards as she threw a positively incredulous look his way. “What, are you saying you haven’t seen the Bridge yet? Or even Hightown?” At Martin’s nod she she looked to Merrill, raising her palms in his direction.

She only looked at Merrill for a moment before Hawke noted Merrills obvious, and growing, confusion. “You’ve been here, what, a whole month now? And you’ve not even stepped foot in Hightown? Not even gandered the Broken Bridge? And I thought Carver was a layabout.”

Martin shrugged. “What reason would I have to visit Hightown? I know no one there. I doubt I could even afford a stool in any of high taverns, let alone the drink.”

Hawke raised a finger him as if to make a point, before dropping it as a look of consideration crossed her face. She too shrugged. “You’ve got a point. Hell, I’d never cross the Bridge if not for work, that’s for sure.

In any case that makes it a proper introduction to Kirkwall for the both of you. Splendid!” She clapped her hands with a grin, pulled her pack on tighter – jostling the short spear strapped to her back – and stepped out of alley. She crooked an arm without turning, flinging it forward. “Follow me, and watch the droppings!”

They continued as they had before, Hawke forging a path as Merrill and Martin trudged after her. Their leader stood straight and true, only occasionally bending to nudge someone out of her path. Usually the crowd moved as if by instinct – cowed by Hawke’s sureness in herself.

Merrill, however, found herself wanting such self-assuredness. The many humans and occasional dwarfs who moved about them, who cleared the way so readily for Hawke seemed to glare at Merrill. Their uncaring eyes appeared to note her _vallaslin,_ their lips to sneer at her ears. _I stand out. And standing out is dangerous._ The tightness of the alley-like thorough-fairs did not help, nor did the distant towers that spired in the distance help. She tried to shrink into herself, tried to appear smaller. Perhaps it worked. She certainly felt smaller.

Hawke cut left into an alley so covered by overhanging roofs – _wood, not the older looking stone –_ that it resembled a tunnel more than a street.

There were few people here for Hawke to push past, but what they lacked for quantity they made up for in sheer presence. Some were clearly destitute, emaciated creatures who clung to the walls even as they held out their hands in supplication. One human was just the opposite, a man who pushed past their small group in a fine dark cloak held across his chest with a finer brooch. He sneered down at Merrill contemptuously as he passed her – _his teeth are so perfectly white_ , Merrill thought idly even as she cowered away from him.

Most of this alley’s denizens had more in common with the Carta thugs off the market than anyone else Merrill had seen. Humans with swords at their sides, axes strapped to their backs, clubs in hand. Their clothes were motley and multi hued, stained in dark reds and blacks.

Martin moved beside her, his eyes sweeping the apparent criminals. A few took note of Merrill, ran their eyes greedily up and down her – but as their eyes shifted to Martin they cowed visibly. None wore armor of any significant level – some padded cloth, a few mismatched bits of metal jutting from various limbs. Merrill found herself suddenly very glad for the presence of the ferelden, especially the parts that seemed more metal than man.

As they rounded a bend Hawke called out to one of the loitering armed men, “Oi, the guard out today?” She did not stop as she spoke, sparing the man only a temporary glance.

The man responded, oddly enough, in a tone of cheery helpfulness. “Na, they’re out in the Coors. Lucky day, right?”

Hawke smiled good-naturedly back. “’Ta friend.”

“Good luck, gorgeous.”

The exchange helped calm Merrill’s addled nerves. She felt herself standing taller beside Martin, even as he glowered about.

Another turn and they were out of the alley. A large chasm appeared before them, the city seemingly split in two by a gap you could fit half a dozen aravels lengthwise. As they drew nearer Merrill realized it was a sort of river, one of the many canals that she had noticed cut through and under the city.

In it she finally caught site of the famous Broken Bridge – a mass of battered and broken stones that blocked a great deal of the water-flow in the canal below. It was totally and utterly destroyed – at least, the old tan stone that once spanned the gap. Merrill realized with excitement as she took in each bit of bridge poking up from the black water below that they were carved in the Old Tevinter style – arches and decorative carvings somehow surviving the flow of water.

The bridge was certainly broken – and unpassable. Thankfully, another bridge stood in its place – a rickety wooden thing, tied with rope, that perhaps two people could fit across at any given time. It swayed ever so slightly in the breeze above the wreck.

“See?” Hawke grinned extending a hand in a flourish at the bridges. “Broken, and yet, unbroken. Life finds a way, somehow – rather fitting for this city.”

Martin snorted beside Merrill, though whether in amusement or derision she could not say.

Their intrepid leader waved them forward – and yet again they followed, across the ragged wooden bridge. Its gentle sway intensified as they passed over, turning Merrill’s stomach, but it held true until her wrapped feet hit solid ground. They turned down another street, past some evidently derelict warehouses before Merrill noticed a change in her step. The road was stone, yes, old and drab – yes. Still, something was different.

She looked down at the parched ground below her feet – no longer did they walk on cobble, but on solid, flat flagstone. Pieces were cracked with age and use, gullies to the sides of the road stained an ugly brown – but the walk was _incredibly_ smooth. Until this moment Merrill had only trodden with a careful step. The dirt paths of Ferelden, the course cobble of the Imperial Highway, and the littered underbrush of forests and marshes of the South all required both conscious and unconscious care to avoid hurting ones feet. To Merrill, walking on pure flagstones, step after step, was like…

_It’s like walking through a_ _fairy land_ _. A fairy land filled with humans, but it’s so smooth! My feet feel wonderful!_

She abruptly realized she stood alone, and in a panic she ran around the corner she had last seen Hawke and Martin headed to.

Her panic subsided as she nearly smacked right into Martin. She only just managed to stop in time, gasping with the effort of her sprint. He sent a questioning glance her way but said nothing.

_Pay attention. You are in a human city, with humans. You must remain aware. You must not get lost here. That would be… very bad._ _Stay with your… what was it Hawke said? ‘Mates?’_

Merrill shook her head clear and heeded her own advice: she did not dally, did not let herself become distracted as she purposefully strode behind Hawke. But with each step she grasped the smooth stone with her toes, marveling through them at the horrid, shitehole of a fairy land that was Kirkwall.


	17. XVI: A Cairn for Carrion

**XVI: A Cairn for Carrion**

Martin of Highever stood in the street and stewed.

He did not brood, as he often did these days, one hand near fused to his flask as he downed it again and again in a futile bid at calm. His thoughts for once were not on the Blight, his former friends – or on _her_.

No, he did not brood, wallowing in self pity. Not for his betrayal of them, nor for _her_ abandonment of him.

_She would not even speak to you. She does not care, she never did – she has your seed and the soul of -_

Martin shut that thought down as he always did, with another swig from his flask. _The flask._

The flask, like most everything else he still had, was a gift – a convenient little space to store some spirit for the day. It had been its easy concealment that had interested him in the first place, when his normally stoic companion passed it to him without fanfare.

“ _It is_ _ **Revasun’in**_ _.” Carys explained as Martin only crooked a brow at the lump of metal now resting in his palm. “The day Shartan overwhelmed the Legatus at the city of Solas. It was claimed that_ _ **Solas**_ _was named for the pride of elves, then shattered.” Carys’ tattooed face split into a wolfish grin. “Instead it became a symbol of rebellion, and of Tevinter arrogance.”_

_Martin glanced down at her gift. It was a simple thing, a flask empty of any etchings or frills save one. A small ‘W’ was etched in a corner, so small he had to squint to see it._

“ _You commissioned a flask from Wade?” He asked, incredulous._

“ _It is silverite,” she nodded. “There was some left over from your plate, and I thought it fitting. You drink as_ _ **manean**_ _. Until_ _ **himana.”**_

_She foresaw his question before he voiced it. “You seem to have developed a taste for_ _**manise** _ _\- spirits. I thought you would appreciate them on the field as well.” She tilted her head at him, face neutral. “Have I guessed wrong?”_

_Looking down at the flask again, he shook his head. “No. You have not. I… thank you. I have nothing to give you in return.”_

_She shrugged at that. “It is of no consequence. It was a gift, freely given. I do not expect you to honor Dalish customs.”_

_He smiled at that. “I suppose you’re right. Still, I will remember you come Wintersend. Should we live to see Wintersend.” He paused, considering the implications of Carys’ gift. He was not, after all, the one she cared for most in their merry band of misfits._

_She again sensed his question before he gave voice to it. “Do not think too highly of yourself, Martin of Highever. You are not the last I have gifts for.”_

_His smile split into a grin. “You have chosen well for me. I find myself curious – what have you found for our other companions? For Zevran have you found a wonderful phial of poison? Wynne, a pair of knitting needles? Or for Alistair, a wheel of Gwaren’s finest cheese?”_

_Carys actually blushed, to Martin’s infinite amusement. “It is not your concern what I give to others. Ask them if you are overwhelmed by curiosity. Now…” Something caught her eye behind him – or someone. “We shall speak again, later.”_

Martin shook off the memory with another swig. She had given Alistair his mother’s amulet, recovered from Arl Eamon’s study. It had been shattered, only partially reassembled by the old Arl – Carys finished the repairs and gifted it to their fellow Warden not minutes after giving Martin his flask.

He drowned the memory of them, hands intertwined, before it could begin. _How in the void did I come to this blighted reminiscing?_

As he turned up his flask yet again he remembered. _It was fascinating how convenient it was. Now I wish it was as big as one of Oghren’s packs._ He swallowed the last drop to stave off _that_ painful thought too.

Martin was not brooding. He was _not_. He was irritated.

They had moved through the streets of Hightown as Hawke played tour guide – pointing out banalities and sights the history of which he was sure she invented on the spot. The Viscount’s keep, a constant figure on Kirkwall’s skyline that was even more impressive in person. Its dark form jutted from the center of Hightown’s opulence like a great spear from a wound. Similarly the great High Chantry loomed, practically across the street from the Keep, though it echoed the more ‘glorious’ architecture of Old Tevinter than the terrible. _If only the Gallows took its cue from the Chantry._

Merrill, the irreconcilably sheltered blood mage, was far too enthralled with Hawke’s vivid descriptions and boisterous enthusiasm to notice much outside of whatever next sight Hawke threw her way. Hawke, similarly distracted – _or perhaps, willfully ignorant_ – did not take note either. Their passage through the city did not go unnoticed. Everywhere eyes followed them –the gaping stares of nobles, the glower of merchants, the suspicion of guardsmen that trailed their group throughout the district.

Whether it was the elf in their midst, or their general dishevelment that disgusted these… _genteel_ folk so – Martin could not say. All he could attest to was that he would gladly break the next judgmental gawker in two had he the opportunity.

Martin reached down for his flask, to get just a taste of _calm_ – and remembered again that it was empty.

And all the while, his head was still pounding.

The only solace he found was the thought of their coming job – Hawke knew few details except that intimidation was involved. He hoped it would go further than that – he wanted, _needed_ to hit something.

A weary part of himself, half soaked and half drowned, echoed in his mind. _You are excited to intimidate? You wish to hurt someone, for some bloody noble? What kind of hero are you, what kind of Warden?_

Yet again his fingers brushed at the empty flask.

“Isn’t this exciting?” Merrill gushed, grinning from ear to ear. It took Martin a moment to realize her eyes were on him, not on Hawke or the half ruined draconic fountain before them. “There’s so much history here! Human history yes, and a lot of it was horrible, but it’s all so fascinating!”

“Aye,” Martin nodded dumbly, unable to match the elf’s enthusiasm. They stood in an admittedly lovely square in the shadow of the Viscount’s Keep – pale flagstones painted a myriad of colors scuffed beneath his boots. Several impressive villas lined the courtyard, most built out of the ever present maze-like walls that dominated all of Kirkwall. There were few people about them – a trio of guards meandering by one of the side streets, several other clustered groups of well dressed humans flittering about all around. All of them were quiet, their footsteps echoing louder than their words.

Martin glanced at the fountain, a half shattered thing depicting a dragon twisting its form around the base of a small pillar. It was an exquisite carving, though weathered with age. There seemed no magic here, no arcane preservation like the Silent Slaves or the city’s great chains. _Tevinters. They have strange priorities._

“That all you have to say, Martin?” Hawke butted in. Somehow she had managed to affect a leaning position with no support, presenting an aloof image to any who saw. She gestured at the fountain, smirking. “No thoughts on one of the Old Gods, standing before you? Of the great shadow of Old Tevinter?”

That drew an amused snort out of Martin, despite his mood. It only aggravated his headache. _Old Tevinter, indeed. How little you know, Hawke. You would not mock so._ “There is no life here,” he groused instead, lazily waving a hand to indicate around them. “No plants, no trees – no children. No water in the fountain. This place is a cairn with some fools with coin think a nest can be built.” He spat despite his dry mouth. “I’d sooner get to your client so that we can get paid. Leave the cairn to its carrion.”

“Piff,” Hawke shot back, still smiling, though her eyebrows crinkled at his tirade. “See what I mean?” She said as she elbowed Merrill. “Right shite company today. Usually he’s a riot. Even smiles a bit.”

“To smile there must be something to smile about,” Martin replied. “Where is this client of yours? I do not wish to be sober any longer than I have to, today.”

Hawke pouted, pursing her lips comically. “As a matter of fact, he lives right here. One of the ‘carrion’ nesting in this ‘cairn.’ You’re right flowery with your pish, aren’t you?”

She gestured to a modest estate off the square – two stories, free standing. It stood alone from the walls, unlike the rest of the homes dotting the square – whether at some point the wall had been demolished to clear the way for such estates or had simply never existed here Martin could not guess. It certainly lent the house a sense of diminished claustrophobia.

The building itself was of a style Martin certainly recognized – white washed stone walls, rounded pillars lining the few unwindowed walls. Pointed tiled roof, second floor slightly extending over the first to create a spot of shade at the front – _it screams bloody Orlesian._

Such structures littered Ferelden wherever the frogs had claimed as their own during the Occupation. _I suppose they lie all over Thedas, wherever the prideful bastards have spread their blighted grasp. Newer arrogant bones to complement the faded Tevinter, damn them._ He brought the empty flask to his lips and frowned at its emptiness.

Hawke cast a look his way, crooking a brow expectantly as if to say ‘ _have anything to say about that_?’

Merrill spoke first. “It’s… well, grand, isn’t it? Not as grand as the Keep, for sure – or the Chantry, or Snillard Gastroem’s home… well. I guess not grand then. Pretty? It looks very clean.”

Hawke nodded at her but kept looking to Martin. In response he rolled his eyes in frustration and pushed past, headed to the house. He ignored Hawke’s chuckle and Merrill’s questions all the way to the door. He ignored them even as he felt them follow, even as he heard them exchange words. Ignored them even as his fist hit the door, harder than he’d intended, turning a knock into a sharp crack that echoed throughout the square.

The door opened immediately, cracking just wide enough to reveal a pudgy face of a man on the wrong side of fifty, wrinkled and balding. What few strands of hair that lined his face seemed to have all collected into a wispish grey mustache that hung as a dead thing over his too moist lips. His dark eyes (along with his furrowed brow) conveyed disdain and apathy in equal measure.

As his lips parted they seemed just about ready to leak. “You stand upon the threshold of Clovis du Chatillon, _Citoyen_ of Kirkwall and Master of - “

Hawke snickered loudly at the name while Martin couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

“- Master of the Artisan’s Guild.” Finished the man in a voice as wispish as his mustache and as runny as his lips. Martin only felt his mood souring as he picked up on the man’s obvious Orlesian affectations. “Do you have business with _Citoyen_ Clovis?”

Hawke snickered again, even louder, shoving her face into the sleeve of her jacket for a moment. “Pardon me, but my associate neglected to inform me of Lord… Clovis’ House. What was that surname again?”

The butler, for that was all that he could be, furrowed his brow even further. “He is of House du Chatillon, heir to - “

He bristled at Hawke’s answering guffaw. “Good thing,” she managed breathily through a laughing fit, “You came along today, _Josiah_.” She slapped Martin’s back hard. “Always good to have a family reunion, ay?”

“Family reunion?” Merrill asked from behind, confusion plain in her tone. “Does that mean you’re cousins, Martin? I thought you were from Ferelden! You have family here in Kirkwall? Oh! Does that mean - “

Martin fought the urge to wrap his knuckles on the door frame as the butler looked on both Hawke and Merrill with clear distaste, tempered only slightly by confusion.

Ignoring Merrill, Martin met the man’s eyes. “Hawke is only having fun. I am no relative of your master. We - “

“We’re here at Master Varric Tethras’ recommendation.” Hawke interrupted lightly. “I believe we are expected.”

The butler’s air of disdain remained even as he opened the door wider. “Of course. You… may enter. I will have you announced.”

They entered into a wide foyer, lush red carpet clinging to Martin’s boots as he kicked his way inside. The chamber was brightly lit, large but narrow – stretching forth towards a grand staircase opposite the door. Paintings lined either side’s walls, framed by lit sconces as three glittering chandeliers hung incandescent above. The light was everywhere, bright and yellow, and it claimed any and all shadows within.

To Martin it seemed the picture of opulence, and Merrill’s awed gasp echoed agreement.

The butler led them through to a side passage and into a sort of sitting room. The bookcases that lined the walls drew Martin’s attention first – then his eyes noted the lit fireplace surrounded by plush couches on yet a plusher carpet. All various reds. _Maker, it feels like my eyes are bleeding._

Finally he noted a man, well dressed in a crimson doublet etched with white triangles. He faced away from them, fumbling with a set of tumblers set on a bar along one of the walls.

The butler cleared his throat, and the man turned. He interestingly enough greatly resembled the butler – graying, balding – though his mustache was far more impressive. His countenance was even stiffer as he turned, the liquid in the half filled glass in his hand spinning at the motion.

“Master Clovis,” the butler oozed, bowing elaborately. “Serah Hawke and… associates have arrived.”

“I can see that,” Clovis grimaced. “You are late,” he directed to Martin. Much like his butler, Clovis’ voice carried a distinctly Orlesian lilt.

“I believe more proper introductions are in order,” Hawke cut in, stepping forward and putting a hand on to one of the couches. “I am Hawke, and these are my associates Josiah - ” Martin could not suppress a groan at that - ” and Merrill. And that is some mighty fine looking hooch, if I do say so myself. Messere.”

The man sighed, swirling the glass in his hand. “Antivan mirto, Seleny – 9:24, I believe. Kalvin – please.”

The butler Kalvin bowed at that, moved to the bar and poured. Clovis stepped past him and sat, gesturing to a particularly large couch facing him. “Please, let us be comfortable at least. We have… hmm...”

“At least an hour, Messere,” Kalvin supplied as he balanced a tray of glasses filled with the same mirto as Clovis held but did not drink. “Sup will be taken first, before congress begins.”

“Thank you, Kalvin,” Clovis replied as he placed a weary hand upon his temple. “That will be all, I think.”

Kalvin finished handing the glasses to each of them before he bowed and made his retreat. Only when he was gone did Martin take a sniff of the drink.

It smelled sweet, like some sort of berry. Carefully he took a sip. _Cloying, sweet – low burn. Like particularly rancid perfume. Still, far better than nothing._ As he took another sip he wondered idly if he could get away with refilling his flask here.

“ _Oooh_ ,” Merrill practically hummed. “This is far better than that… than that other drink. It’s like drinking berries!”

“That’s because it’s proper shite, Merrill,” Hawke answered with a grin. “I mean,” she continued, looking to their host. “Proper good shite. Proper good. It’s _positively_ the Lord of Liquors.”

Clovis shrugged, setting down his own glass on a small table beside his perch. “Now, I must say… you are not quite what I was expecting. You two certainly look the part of violent thugs, but I was not expecting...” he gestured lamely towards Merrill, trailing off. “Are those Dalish markings?”

“Oh yes, they are,” Merrill answered happily, practically bouncing as she savored her drink. “They are _Vallislin._ They represent adulthood, both in how they are drawn and what they represent-“

“Not to worry,” interrupted Hawke. “Our Merrill is a wild animal, Messere, a right killer. They don’t get those tattoos ‘till they’ve killed a man with their bare hands, stripped of all weaponry and protection.”

Merrill looked up at Hawke, aghast, as Clovis’ pate took on a clearly disgusted look. “Do you mean to say...” He started.

“That I do. Completely in the buck, free in the breeze. Have no worry about Merrill, if it’s a fight you’re looking for she’ll go right for the eyes. Her favored trophy, you see.”

Clovis actively scooched in his chair away from Merrill. She simply deflated inwards, sadly. Even Martin, irritated at the world as he was, felt a smattering of pity for the elf.

“Maker’s breath,” Clovis cursed. “I do not want that! Keep your elf leashed, if you would. There will be no killing this day.”

“But Hawke - ” Merrill’s tone was timid, nervous.

“Now, now, calm yourself Merrill,” Hawke replied, holding her hands up plaintively. “You’ll get yourself a good set of baby blues one of these days, mark my words. Just not today. We will do as our employer asks.” She turned to Clovis. “Speaking of which, what exactly do you need done, Messere? Which unfortunate clod has earned your righteous ire, and our directed fury?”

Clovis leaned over and picked his glass up and drank, muttering quietly in Orlesian. After one, then two drafts of his glass he spoke. “It is my wife, you see. Ninette. Ours… well, our marriage was never one of romance. It was, and always has been, a thing of convenience. A union of our houses – my name lent to her family’s, and their coin lent to mine. It was an equitable arrangement, a proper path.”

He muttered again, clearly cursing in that awful tongue. “Now I never begrudged her her happiness, nor her own choices. Since the day of our union we have had an… understanding. I had no care if she found a stable hand she wished to bed, while she had no care if I decided entertain a serving girl, as long as we were _discrete_. Appearances must be maintained, for the honor of both our houses.”

Martin, tongue loosened by the drink and head still in pain, scoffed loudly. _Orlesian honor._ Hawke immediately shot him a stern look, though Clovis did not so much as glance his way.

“To you… common-folk, it may seem strange, but such arrangements are fairly common amongst those of our… standing,” Clovis continued. “It has worked well enough these past ten years, but now… well, now she has gone too far.”

The _Citoyen_ stood abruptly, near slamming his glass down on the table as he stalked across the room. “Love letters, sent by courier. I have received not one, but three from the simpletons, somehow mistaking me for their intended. White lilies, handed _directly_ to me. Left on my door! I confronted her, told her to stop this blasted affair – or at least keep the thing out of sight. She laughed in my face! Told me she was in love, and that she didn’t give a damn what I thought.”

Fuming, Clovis stopped and turned back to Hawke. “I have more than enough evidence to divorce her, but I cannot lose her family’s good will. I have had her followed, I know where they are to meet and engage in their… sordidness, and I know when. You shall accompany me, and when we catch them _in flagrante_ , you shall aid me in retrieving her family’s ring so that I might return it to them in good faith.”

The man seemed to calm somewhat, and he made his way back to his couch. “And,” he said smoothly. “Depending on my mood, you shall perhaps teach this… wanton lout a lesson.”

Unable to help himself, Martin snorted again. _This Orlesian bastard sets his own bed, and now he does not wish to lie in it._ Before he could voice his thoughts aloud Hawke spoke up.

“That sounds positively grand, Messere. If you would, could you please allow me a moment to confer with my fellows?”

Clovis tapped a foot, clearly impatient. “I was given the impression by Master Tethras that you would take the job, but if you truly must… fine. Be quick about it. We are on a timetable.”

The lord strode from the room, hesitating at the threshold before stepping out. As soon as the door shut, Hawke whirled on Martin.

“What the bloody hell was that?” She whispered angrily. “Maker save me, Martin, I think he’s a ploughing peacock myself, but would you _please_ keep your big mouth shut? There’s coin at stake.”

“Orlesian honor is what’s at stake,” Martin chuckled even through the stabbing pain behind his eyes. “What’s a sum of coin to that?”

“Right, har har. Stuff a cork in it man,” Hawke bit back. “Maker, now you choose to be rowdy. Whole way here you sulk, now you’re insulting our client. Save your grousing for the Hanged Man.”

Through his discomfort Martin felt a pang of shame. It would not do to jeopardize Hawke’s reputation, or earnings. _She certainly needs the coin for that desperate project of hers_. _Though_ , he thought darkly, glancing to where Merrill sat, staring sullenly at the glass in her hands. _I am not the only one bandying careless words._

“Speaking of insults...” he said, indicating Merrill. Hawke looked Merrill, noted the sadness in her countenance.

“Oh, Daisy, what’s wrong?” She asked plaintively, sliding over and putting a hand to the elf’s shoulder.

“It’s just...” she said quietly, her fingers dancing around the glass. “What you said about the _vallislin_. Do humans truly believe… that is what we are?”

“What? No! I mean...” As Hawke backpedaled, clearly apologetic, Martin crept quietly to the bar, placed his flask upon its wooden surface.

“I mean, I know humans… well, don’t think very much of us. I hadn’t heard that… do you think us animals?”

“Bloody hell, most people know nothing and don’t care to rectify that. You lot live in your woods, most don’t give a fig as long as it stays that way.” Martin grabbed the mirto, quickly pulled out the cork and poured it into his waiting flask.

“It was… well, he wasn’t taking you seriously, Merrill. You aren’t what he was expecting. Might’ve been he just was curious, but more the like he’d use your lack of… gravitas to negotiate our price down afterwards. Now that he thinks you’re a scary she-elf? Less chances of that.”

“So it was just… a lie?”

“That’s exactly what it was. Besides, did you see his face? You could give him the sweetest smile and the only thing he’d see is your knife in his eye sockets. Ha!”

Martin quickly sealed both bottle and flask in the pervading silence.

“No, that’s not… Ugh. His face though! You’ve got to give me that. Bloody ponce like that, soiling his britches over a right Daisy like you? Priceless? Right?”

“I… suppose,” turning back to the duo, Martin noted Merrill’s half-felt attempt at a smile.

“Come on, Martin,” Hawke begged, turning pleading his his way. “Help me out here, man. I didn’t mean...”

Martin shrugged. “You made your bed, Hawke.”

Hawke through him a rude gesture. “Piss on that. Merrill, I didn’t mean nothing by it. Friends?”

The half-healed sadness marring Merrill’s expression was now totally replaced with one of confusion. “Friends?” She answered back after a moment, tone questioning.

“Right. Perfect. We’ll celebrate over a pint tonight.” Hawke pushed herself up. “Let’s go put the fear of the maker into… whoever.” She reached over and plucked Martin’s flask from his hands. “’Ta, Martin. You are far too kind.”

Martin didn’t have the heart to even be annoyed as she quickly downed fully half of his ill-gotten liquor. It seemed fair recompense, for his words – and fair easement for hers.

“Oi! ...Er, m’lord! Let’s hear amount and shake on it, right quick! We have reached accord!”

[=]

The agreement, such as it was, was sodding fantastic as far as Hawke was concerned.

_Follow this clown through Hightown, out the proper Esten gate, then put the fear of the Maker into some fool at some muddy Lowtown eatery? ‘A copper’s a copper, but a sovereign's a proper dinner,’ as da used to say. This Clovis man must be real easy to intimidate – hardly had to talk him up to shift up to a sovereign and a half, after one look at Daisy. Hah! Three hours? No killing? Proper sloshed tonight._

She grinned in absolute satisfaction as they stepped through the Estern Gate, their noble employer stopping momentarily to slide a handful of silvers and a quiet word to the active guardsman.

_Most like he doesn’t want his slumming to be the gossip at the Keep… fair enough._

It seemed hardly a breeze – _well, breeze smelling slightly of shite_ – had passed them by when they found themselves at a little shop not a stones throw from the gate. Well, not quite so little. It was multi-storied, a strange sort of cross between a bakery and an inn. It was decidedly cleaner than the Lowtown fare Hawke was accustomed too, but then again everything was cleaner this close to Hightown. _Almost a proper Midtown. Someone even cleans the streets here! Not very well, but it’s the thought that counts._

As ‘ _Citoyen’_ Clovis reached the inn’s swinging, green painted door he hesitated. Hawke, eager to earn her easy pay, sauntered up past him and took the lead. Practically threw the door open.

Inside was even finer than outside – well, it didn’t hold a candle to Clovis’ relatively meager (by noble standards at any rate) estate, but it was nice. The room was small, yet cozy – tables lined and filled the space, dark wood marred only by flower and the occasional carved graffiti. The people sat at them seemed a decent sort – well, a decently well off sort, not poor at any rate. They actually had color to their clothes. Blue paint coated the walls, designs of flowers and other such nonsense traced within.

And through it all, the smell of fresh baked bread and pastries wafted throughout. It was enough for her to stop in her tracks and sigh.

_This job’s paying for itself at this bloody rate._

As she stood, admiring the aroma, Clovis pushed past her. Before walking in he had apparently donned a hood that concealed his rather aristocratic features, though he still wore his ridiculous checkered outfit. Hawke hoped for his sake that those checkers weren’t some kind of coat of arms – _would make the hood a right pointless exercise._

No one seemed to take particular note or interest in their group as Merrill and Martin entered behind, the latter closing the door behind him. Though they all seemed rather occupied with the contents of their plates – the obvious sources of the tapestry of scent Hawke now basked in.

Hardly a moment passed before a woman dressed in a modest, though pretty pale pink dress practically bundled up to them.

“Master Clovis, you are just in time! I kept them fed, as you said, and led, as you said – now they are just now - “

“In bed, as I said,” their employer interrupted with just a hint of annoyance in his tone. “Keep your voice down. I am meant to be _incognito_.”

The woman was… well, striking to say the least. Her strawberry-blonde hair crowned her painted face, the blush fitting splendidly with her hair. Her dress, though modest, did accentuate with a swishing regularity her ample form.

Most would see her beauty and presentation of it as natural, as modest and unaffected as her simple dress. To Hawke’s observant eye it was clear intention – _as someone I know once said, she is practically throwing the view our way. Or…_ she reconsidered, noting the woman’s obvious deference to Clovis. _Perhaps just his way?_

“I’m sorry, Messere,” the woman answered, groveling oozing through her tone. “However can I make it up to you?”

“Point the way towards my wife’s room, if you please.” Clovis said with barely masked impatience.

The woman pouted somewhat, giving Hawke a cold once-over with her painted gaze. Upon noting Hawke’s leathers, however, her view thawed. “First room on the left, second floor. They’ve not been in there an hour yet. I hope you shall not make much of a mess.”

“No harm will come to your room, I assure you, Alexa,” Clovis spoke. He turned, gesturing with two fingers for Hawke and company to follow, before glancing back at the woman. “You may… make it up, when I call on you on the ‘morrow.”

Alexa giggled, her artificial blush flushing all to actually at Clovis’ words. “You are always welcome… my _lord_.” She turned and sashayed away, stopping at one of the occupied tables to speak to a customer.

Martin coughed loudly. As Hawke turned the man was already drowning the noise with another pull on his flask. _Good on him. Let’s not piss off, or piss on our ‘Citoyen’ ‘till we are well and paid. However much of a hypocritical lecher he is._

As Clovis led them along the edge of the establishment, towards a set of stairs at the far end, Hawke glanced back at her companions.

Martin had since sheathed his flask and now had his hands on his hammers, looking all the part of a violent thug as he strode behind her. Only his slouch belied his obviously continuing hangover, though the patrons that stubbornly refused to look at them clearly did not notice the man’s clear and present weakness.

Merrill moved behind him, practically clinging to his shadow. She still seemed deflated, the obvious cheer Hawke had worked so hard to instill in her through their tour of Hightown completely reversed. Hawke, feeling equal parts annoyance and shame, clung to the easier annoyance. _All ‘cause of a single tale about her tattoos. She doesn’t have to take it so bloody personally, wilting at one ribbing._

The elf, apparently noticing Hawke’s scrutiny lifted her green eyes to meet Hawke’s. The doe-eyed look immediately turned Hawke away, as she once again focused on Clovis’ finely clothed back and the stairs they now ascended. _Piss-shite. I’ll make it up to her tonight._

They crept up the stairs, around the bend and stopped in a narrow hallway. Several doors, obviously leading to the inn’s rooms all stood closed along the walls.

They stopped at the first one. Clovis awkwardly leaned forward and placed his ear at the door. He leaned back, removed his hood, and delicately moved his ear in place again. His brow furrowed as he frowned.

“I hear nothing,” he whispered. “I had hoped to catch them occupied.”

Hawke shrugged, stepping past the Lord and placing her own ear to the wood.

Nothing.

She felt for the door handle.

Locked.

She stepped back. “Guess your wife’s man has a massive shortcoming,” she (silently) snickered at Clovis’ deepened frown. “And we need a key.”

Their employer shook his aged head. “No. It is better this way – breaking the door down will be a fitting awakening for the swine. I will… repay Alexa.”

“Let’s get on with it then,” Hawke replied, shrugging as she turned to Martin. “If you would?” She asked, gesturing to the door. _Not about to break my shoulder on that._

As Martin rolled his shoulders, squared off and moved back a few paces from the door, Hawke looked to the now clearly nervous Merrill. “Chin up, just follow behind and it’ll all be fine.”

Martin flew at the door then, ramming his shoulder hard into the handle and bolt. With a mighty crack the bolt broke through the thin wood of the wall, sending man and door flapping inwards into the room. Hawke followed on the man’s heels even as he caught himself with an outstretched arm and propelled himself fully into the room proper.

Hawke had a hand on her knife, the one she kept within her leather coat, ready to brandish.

What greeted them was a calm silence and serene sunlight. A bed, thoroughly tousled centered the modest room. Large windows, curtains fluttering, lay open to the sun and street below. An armoire sat against one wall, one door partially ajar.

Hawke, eyes darting, looking for quarry – realized abruptly that they were alone. There was no one here.

“They are… gone?!?” Clovis demanded from behind, his thin voice breaking in anger. “ _C’est des conneries! Fils de pute!”_

Hawke tuned their employer out as she stepped towards the bed, alongside Martin. Something was wrong. Something… felt wrong. The sun that shone through the windows, the calm breeze – the sheer emptiness of the room. The sway of lilies on the sill.

Martin stepped forward, knelt on the bed. He placed a hand into the tossed sheets, threw them back with a quick motion.

A fine powder of what looked like ash coated leapt from within. As Hawke unconsciously tracked a bit of it that flew into the air and hit the wooden floor beside the bed, she noticed there was already some on the floor. Sprinkled in a trail. Her eyes followed it, to her left, somewhat behind – to the open armoire.

Where Merrill stood, her hand on the door, her face white as she looked inside.

“Hawke...” she whispered sickly, her eyes locked on whatever lay within the armoire even as she backed slowly away.

Hawke, a terrible curiosity lighting in her belly, moved past the stricken elf.

Inside the armoire, shining bright in the sun, lay a ring. It seemed lumpy, partially misshapen – as if someone had left it near a forge fire for too long. As Hawke stepped closer she realized it looked fused to something. A thin line – no, more than one line, several pieces of some sort of white, pristine…

_Bone. Finger bones._

_Too small. Too small,_ she felt panic rising as her breath quickened, shortened – seemed to catch in her chest. The room suddenly smelled of rot, of _that strange mixture of shit and fresh corpse._

A gloved hand suddenly closed around the finger and ring, snapping Hawke back to the present. The fear remained within her, but the air once again held the scent of sunshine and distant bread.

Martin stood, his face lined and hard, the finger hidden within his closed fist. “We need to leave. _Now_.”

“What have you found there?” Demanded Clovis, his tone lacking his earlier authority. It seemed he felt the wrongness of the room as well.

Merrill, her hands on covering her mouth, stood shivering with her back to the wall. Her eyes were locked to Martin’s closed fist.

“It should not be...” Merrill managed to whimper through her hands.

“What are you babbling about, rabbit?” Clovis snapped, his voice wavering. “What should not - ”

Martin grabbed him bodily with his free hand, dragging the Orlesian from the room. Hawke, finally recovered, grabbed the shock still Merrill by the hand and pulled her along far less roughly (though no less urgently) than Martin pulled Clovis.

She followed Martin’s hurried pace with Merrill, down the stairs, past the questioning Alexa, out the door into the street, down the block, past building after building until Clovis broke free from Martin’s grip and veered suddenly into an alley.

Hawke and Merrill followed behind to find Clovis shouting at Martin.

“How dare you manhandle me in such a fashion! I shall have you -”

Martin backhanded the man across the face, a casual gesture, though it knocked Clovis to his knees. He clutched at his face, moaning.

“I would thank you to shut it, Ser.” Martin said dangerously. “You have no idea what we just fled.”

Merrill spoke from beside Hawke, her face still deathly white. “The fade – blood…”

“Aye,” interrupted Martin with a venom in his tone. “Blood. You yearned for your wife’s ring?” He tossed, without ceremony, the bone and ring at Clovis’ feet. The joint bent upon landing, crooking towards the kneeling Lord.

He stared at it momentarily, unrealizing, before scrabbling back from it. “What in the Maker -”

“Not the Maker,” Martin barked, fire in his voice. “Far from Him. The veil was torn, shredded by blood, stitched together haphazard mere minutes before we arrived. You can rest assured that your wife has paid dearly for her infidelity. The rest of her did not fare so well as this ring.”

Clovis, his hand still clutching as his now running nose, blanched. He fell back from his kneeling position, sat squarely on his arse. “How...” he began, coughing. “How do you know? How can you know?”

“Josiah – well, he was a Templar, once,” Hawke bullshitted, her mind skipping a mile a minute. “He can smell that sort of thing. Knows what to look for.” _Merrill_ _ **knew.**_ _She felt the blood. I could feel something off… something wrong… how the bloody hells did Martin know? Can he really smell that shite? Is he a mage?_ A lump formed and stopped her throat. _**Is**_ _he a Templar?_

She shook her head, swallowing. _No. Maybe he was, once, but if he wanted to report me he would have done so. He’s had all the opportunity._ _Besides, he has seen Blight. I_ _ **know**_ _he wasn’t lying._ _And no Templar would spend his days and coin pissing it all away at the Hanged Man._

_But how did he know?_

“ _Merde_...” Swore Clovis quietly, as he looked from Hawke to Martin, to the finger, then back to Martin. “Her family will be furious. There can be no settlement if they suspect I have killed her.”

“Is that all that matters to you?” Martin roared, his foulness manifesting into fury that cowed Clovis. Even Hawke felt herself stepping back ever so slightly. “Is that all that matters? Your accursed reputation? Your noble games?” He spat, a full glob, though he had the decency to aim it away from Clovis. “Your wife is dead, torn asunder and burnt to ash by some foul magic and you worry about...”

Martin stepped back abruptly, pulling out his flask and tilting it to his mouth. He did not stop drinking until it was empty.

“Handle him, Hawke.” He spoke after he’d finished. “I am liable to do something I will regret should I continue.”

“Right, so, horrible-terrible magic aside,” Hawke said with false levity. “ _We’re_ all hale and whole, yes? We didn’t really do anything except run like hell, but we did recover your wife’s ring. How’s about we all split ways now, put some distance between this shite and ourselves, right after we settle up.”

Clovis sat, his mouth moving noiselessly for a moment. He looked down at the finger, cringed and looked away. “Might I have… something, to carry…”

Merrill released Hawke’s hand then, pulled out a pouch from her belt with only a partial tremor. “Usually I have them for herbs,” she explained to Hawke. “Or feathers. Anything useful for alchemy, really, though sometimes not useful. Like rocks. Pretty ones. And… well, here you are. Sorry.” She handed it to Hawke, who in turn, handed it to Clovis.

Clovis, clearly stricken with both distaste and fear made to reach for the bone. He recoiled his hand a finger length from it, looked to Martin with pleading in his eyes.

Martin shook his head, made to say something. He closed his mouth without voicing his thoughts, shook his head again, and turned away.

Clovis looked back to the bone, gingerly held open Merrill’s pouch, and scooped it up. He nearly dropped finger and pouch in his haste to stand with the sealed container clutched in one hand.

Hawke sidled up to him, putting on her most charming smile. It didn’t really work – couldn’t really work. Not right then. It probably looked more like a grimace. “Now, about our pay...”

The Lord looked to her with a blank look, before starting in realization. Without fanfare he withdrew his own coin purse, handing her two solid gold sovereigns without consideration.

“Do not… please do not speak of this,” Clovis asked, voice timid, his gaze shifting between Merrill and Martin. “I will see about… slipping word to the Templars of this... incident. Or… perhaps not. I do not know. I… thank you… for your assistance.” He bobbed his head to each in turn, and, as if in a daze, stumbled out of the alley.

They all stood in silence for a moment, Merrill nervously clutching at her own hands. Hawke reached out and took one of the elf’s in her own, if only to calm her own building tremor.

“Well,” She managed lightly, her mind still on bones and blood. “That was far more serious than I thought it would be.”

“Aye,” Martin answered. _“_ That is one word for it. _”_

“So…Hanged Man?” Hawke asked, looking to both her companions.

“I think that would be prudent,” Martin replied.

  


They were not two drinks in when Merrill broke down, asked through tears if she could go home. She apologized her whole way out, promising that she wanted to learn about drinking, wanted to spend time with them… only…

Martin led her out then, a hand on her shoulder, swearing to both Hawke and Merrill he would see the elf safely home. Hawke barely noticed them as they left, hardly noted the comforting hand or the quiet words he offered the girl on their way out the door.

Hawke sat, alone, for what felt an hour before the table shook as someone sat down beside her. Turning, her eyes beheld Varric’s cheeky grin. “So,” he asked, humor in his voice. “I had a shit day at the Merchant’s Guild. What did I miss?”

Hawke fought the urge to slap him.

“Fuck your jobs,” she said instead, punctuating her statement with a pull at her mug.


	18. XVII: Family

**XVII: Family**

“You there, little brother?” A voice called out to him, a laugh within it. “It’s a wonderful morning – birds singing, sun shining... whores moaning.”

“Nell!” A distinctively irritated woman scolded. “Must you be so foul?”

“It’s a foul city,” the original voice, also a woman spoke. “Would it be fairer for me to be fair? It would hardly be fair to describe the foul fairly, would it not?”

“Maker save me, you crack that wit of yours so tightly I swear I can close my eyes and see your father, returned from the Maker’s side.”

“Certainly a prettier version of him, at least, though not to smear dear ‘da. He certainly cut a fair figure in your dress on Wintersend.”

“Nell!” The scold was hardly there this time, amusement clouding any sting.

“ **CARVER**!”

At Nell’s shout Carver snapped awake, his neck whipping up from the hard pillow of his arms. He sat at the stained mess that Gamlen claimed as a table, Mother and Nell sitting on either side across. Sun shone through the slats on the front window, painting Nell’s self-satisfied grin in a bright gleam. Dust and dirt seemed to float and cling to the narrow light.

It took Carver a moment, as it often did, to remember where exactly he was – to chase away the scent and taste of hard rain, of Blight, of the image of Bethany crushed beneath massive fists. _Bethany!_ Her name was a cry in his mind, a shout of a dream even now he only remembered the end of.

And it _was_ a dream. He was awake, here, in Lowtown. _In Gamlen’s pathetic excuse for a house._

“You look a right mess, brother.” Nell smiled at him. “No red-headed lass I’m chasing you away from, I hope?”

“Shut your bloody mouth,” Carver groused, with little of his usual venom. _Would’ve been proper mad at that waking, had I dreamt of her. Although…_ as of late, tattoos and pointed ears haunted his dreams more than Chantry sisters.

“You do look rather worn down, Carver. Are you alright?” Mother asked, concern painting her lined features. Lines that tunneled through her happy veneer and gave her the appearance of a woman more than a decade older than her true age. Lines that had not existed at all when Father had still been alive, and lines that more than doubled during their long trek through the Wilds.

Carver shed that thought as he always did these days, an imaginary shake of his shoulders loosening the ever present grief from the front of his mind. Sometimes he envied his sister’s ability to simply ignore that grief, to smile and joke and piss on the world like she had a right to.

_Like she doesn’t give a damn._ A small part of him knew such a thought was unfair, that even the unvoiced blame for the loss they both shared was a wrong so great it bordered on evil. His sister would’ve torn herself in two if it would’ve spared Bethany her fate.

_But she didn’t. And Bethany’s dead for it._

He rolled his shoulders one more time, stretched, dropping the thought for good. _Not for good, never for good. A little while, at least._

“No,” he grumbled, noticing a slight further dip in his mother’s expression as he spoke. “Had a late night. Still need to catch up on sleep.”

“Now, now,” chided Nell. This time her flippant tone did raise his hackles. “’When you flout yesterday - ’”

“You pay tomorrow,’” Carver interrupted, unwilling to hear his father’s words from her mouth just then. “’As ‘da used to say,’ no doubt. Mother,” he groaned, turning more to avoid looking at his sister’s smug face than to meet his mother’s gaze. “What’s this all about? You said you had something important to tell us.”

His mother smiled bashfully, rubbing her left ring finger with her right hand. “Well...” she started, “I was going to make breakfast first, but this is too important. I have finally had news from the Seneschal.”

“Come off it,” Nell demanded lightly enough, but with true interest in her voice. “ _The_ Seneschal? The Viscount’s second? _That_ bloody Seneschal?”

Mother was nodding vigorously, a smile splitting the lines on her face. “Well, I don’t believe it’s actually from the man. But it bears the Viscount’s seal, and it was delivered from the Keep - ”

“Most Guardsmen can’t get a word edgewise with the Seneschal,” Nell continued her awed wondering. “Even Aveline as a sergeant hardly ever meets him.”

Carver frowned at the thought of the Sergeant. _She’s avoiding me. I know it. She doesn’t think I have what it takes to do what she does. “_ You didn’t rope Aveline into this, did you, Mother?”

“No! Of course not,” she placated, taking his hand from across the table. “I didn’t want to bother the poor woman. And what would it look like, for her? Passing personal messages from her friend’s family, personal petitions even?” Carver tolerated a moment of touch before withdrawing his hand.

“It’d make her look like every other guardsman,” Nell supplied, tilting her head as her grin turned sardonic. “Like the Guard is only secondary to other employers. Or at least, that she’s taking favors or what have you.”

“Exactly,” Mother finished. “I couldn’t bear the thought of that. We’ll pull ourselves back up without putting out Aveline to do it… speaking of - ”

She reached down under the table and withdrew a thick envelope, tellingly sealed in wax. Nell tapped it immediately, spinning the thing to face her. “That’s the Seneschal’s mark, alright,” his sister observed. “Had to copy it once, you know, sos we could slip a ship- ”

“Yes, yes,” Carver growled. “I was there. Real killer time that. Open the bloody thing.”

Mother moved to stand, “I’ll just get - ”

Before she even got a step up Nell had pulled, flipped, and stuck a dagger into the table from within her bodice. “No worries. Would you like to do the honors?”

Without a hint of perturbation at Nell’s unhealthy skill with that knife, or its particular hiding place – _though she’s had both those nigh on a decade now, even mother had to get used to it eventually_ – Mother reached for both knife and letter, neatly parting parchment with a practiced flick to reveal a folded smattering of vellum sheets. She picked up the first page and gave it a little shake to straighten it out.

“’To the Scion of House Amell, Leandra Astrid Amell - ” she read with practiced ease. “After the verification of your House’s signet - ” she waved her hand in demonstration, the ring in question catching the light far better than her copper wedding band. She seemed oddly regal at that moment, as noble as the name she once bore. “this Office regretfully… informs you… that your petition for the return of the Amell estates and holdings has been… denied.” She frowned at that, her noble air slipping, but perked up as she read on. “However, as your Claim has been Rightfully Recognized, this Office will allow for...’”

She trailed off, her sharp eyes darting back and forth across the page, hungrily. “Oh my,” she breathed.

“What?” Nell asked at the same time as Carver spoke.

“What’s it bloody say?”

“...Well...” Mother said, her brow furrowed as she gleaned the page for further meaning. “The Viscount’s Office owns the estate, but will hold it for us to repurchase at our convenience.”

Carver banged a fist on the table at that, unable to fight down the bitterness that won through him. “They sell it back to us? Like hell we’ll buy it from the bastards that stole it from our family.”

“Well, stole if you believe what old Uncle Gamlen says, at least,” Nell frowned. “Though I wouldn’t put it past this city. Do they say how much?”

Mother shook her head. “No, only to inquire at the Keep… although! Oh!” She continued reading in silence.

“What?” demanded Nell. “You can’t just gasp with excitement like that, mother! Come on, spill!”

“’Enclosed within is the property held in Trust by this Office for Leandra Amell. As witnessed by… hmm hmm…. Signed Seneschal Bran, in Service to his most Eminent Viscount, Marlowe Dumar.” She reached down for the other papers, folded together.

Before she had them halfway off the table the front door burst open, momentarily filling the narrow room with the smells and sounds of Lowtown at morning. Shouting, folks moving about, oxen lowing, even… Carver perked up his ears. No joke. _Some girl’s plying her trade in the alley right outside._ He grinned stupidly at that mental image, though he quickly schooled his expression (and thoughts) when he remembered his mother right across the table.

Those sounds and smells were abruptly cut off as Gamlen stepped into the room and slammed the door behind him. He stood with his usual unkempt beard, unwashed hair, and red-shot sunken eyes. He slouched miserably as he stood the few paces away the room stretched from table to door.

“Well,” he grumbled. “Bad enough I have to step past Lisa, now I can’t even slip to bed safely. Whole sodding family meeting, is it? What’s this all about then? Finally found the coin to move out, have you?”

“No, not quite yet, Uncle.” Hawke answered glibly. “Just receiving our mail from the our old chum Marlowe. He’s a right upstanding prig, has a whole Keep and all. His mate’s just writing about how our claims are Well and Proper and the like, apparently.”

“’Marlowe? Claims?’” Gamlen asked in disbelief. “Don’t tell those fool letters of yours actually amounted to something, Leandra.”

“As a matter of fact, they have,” mother answered, a smile breaking across her furrowed brow. “They’ve also returned some documents they held in trust for me, we were just about to read them. Would you care to join us?”

Gamlen squinted, as if in pain. “Documents? What documents?”

“Well,” mother looked down to the papers, flicked them as before to straighten them. “Oh goodness! It’s Father’s Will! I thought he left no word!”

“No word?” Nell asked slowly. “What, was that how the Viscount got his paws on the illustrious family fortune? You never really talked about grandfather much.”

“Father died as mother did, from the bloody flux.” Gamlen interjected, tone insistent. The man was white as a sheet, his face stricken. “I heard nothing of any will, or any such foolishness. It’s not my fault my sister was not here to negotiate with the vultures the Viscount employs. I never was any good at that sort of thing,” he practically spat out those last words.

“Now, now,” consoled mother. “That was hardly your fault, Gamlen, though you might have told me in the letter you sent.”

“Oh, don’t you blame me for that,” Gamlen shot back, as if mother was arguing with him. _Though that’s how he acts most days,_ Carver observed without reflection. He leaned back in his chair, thoroughly uninterested in hearing his mother and uncle argue for what felt like the thousandth time since they’d moved in, though he noticed Nell lean forward in her seat. The slatted light cast her face in shadow as she looked down at the table.

“I received just two letters from you after you ran off,” Gamlen continued. “Then a decade of silence, until I get a third note hand delivered by a sodding guardsman of all people, ‘from your sister,’ he said. Then I scramble to call in every bloody contact I know to get you into the city, and hardly a word of gratitude from the sister I haven’t seen in over twenty years. Then again, I suppose if you didn’t give one wit about me when you were off with your lover doing Maker knows what it would hardly be out of character to care after I saved your bloody bacon.”

Mother frowned, her face darkening in anger as the pages shook in between her clenching fists. For a moment she looked ready to retort in kind, but instead she calmed, her face smoothing. “I’ve already apologized for the lack of letters, Gamlen. Things were hard when we first arrived in Ferelden, what with Nell’s birth. I had a hard time of it, and she took all my attention for quite some time.”

“I wrote you when mother and father died! I told you about the funeral!”

At that she did snap back, though she kept her tone below a yell. “The twins weren’t even a year old then! I wrote back, I did! I explained why I couldn’t come, and asked for you to write back more. I comforted you!” She immediately schooled herself back to calm, breathed deeply. “We shouldn’t fight like this. There’s nothing that can be done about past mistakes, and we’re _family_. Please, now’s your chance to finally hear father’s will. Sit with us.”

Gamlen physically recoiled. “No. I don’t care what that old fool had to say. I’m going out.”

“Where?” asked mother, bewildered.

“Out!” he shot back, turning away. Before he made it three steps Nell suddenly spoke.

“So help me, Uncle, you take one more step and I will personally ensure that you regret it.”

He froze in place, hand reaching for the front door’s latch.

“Nell!” mother gasped.

“No, mother,” Nell looked up, the light revealing a horrible grimace marring her face. “If dear old Uncle Gamlen hasn’t fibbed about the circumstances surrounding the Amell fall from grace, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind reminiscing with grandfather’s last will and testament with his beloved extended family. Isn’t that right Uncle?”

The man stood shock still, hand still outreached towards the handle. He didn’t move, didn’t breath for a moment. Then he surprised them all.

Gamlen turned with a sneer, standing from his slouch to his full height. His face, still pale and stretched, was utterly twisted with rage. “I don’t need to sit and hear that thing _again_ to know what he said. I was _here_. You ran away with some commoner, abandoned the family and disobeyed father. He disowned you. He told me you weren’t my sister anymore, you were no longer an Amell. It broke him, you know. Him and mother both. And you left me here to sit at his side, to change their soiled sheets and wipe their sodding noses as they wasted away before my eyes. You know what Father’s last word was? ‘Leandra.’”

Mother paled, looking to the Will, back to Gamlen. “They… they didn’t hate me? In the end?”

“Hate you!” Gamlen barked. “Father left you everything. Fucking _everything_. He left me a bloody stipend. A stipend! Me! After all I did for them! After all I bloody cared!”

Carver, shocked to silence until that point, made to speak but was one upped by Nell. “What happened?” she asked dangerously.

Gamlen smiled a horrible, hateful smile. “Well, your mother was hardly around to claim her inheritance. I took it. Spent it. Lived the sodding high life. Made some investments, though those didn’t turn out so good.” His grin died at that, fading into a frown. “Leandra was always better at that sort of thing.”

They all remained still, Gamlen slouching a little from his upright tirade. After a moment mother spoke tentatively. “Gamlen… how could you? How could you do that to me, to us?”

“You weren’t here,” he replied, tone softening. “You weren’t here, and I just wanted something for myself for once. It didn’t go all at once… and I didn’t do it on purpose. I just… made mistakes.”

“Did you not think?” demanded Nell suddenly, her chair nearly flying back as she stood. She jabbed a finger at him. “Do you even realize… what you did to us? Did to me?”

There was something manic about her then, an anger that even Carver felt genuinely perturbed by. “Sister...” he tried to say.

She silenced him with a snapping gesture. “We’re stuck here, in the damned dirt, our hands soaked in blood and shite… because grandfather didn’t hug you enough? Loved Mother more than you?”

Gamlen shied away as she took a step towards him.

“You sold us into servitude! We _prostituted_ ourselves to get into a city that we should’ve owned the ploughing _key_ _s_ to!”

For all his faults, all his usual sniveling – Gamlen did not run. Though he shrunk under the torrent that was Nell, he did not turn. “I did my best. I did all that I could. It was hardly my fault a Blight rose up to chase you all back, now is it?”

Nell looked ready to strangle him, nearly looked to reach for him. Mother was standing now, wringing her hands frantically at the sight of the confrontation. Carver, as a matter of instinct, reached to his back for the blade that wasn’t there. He reached even as he realized the emotion that passed through him at Gamlen’s revelation was anything but anger.

“Nell...” his nother whispered.

A sudden rap forced Gamlen a full handspan off the ground, as the door he leaned against pounded under someone’s fist.

The sound was enough to set Nell back a step, for her hands to fall back to her sides. “Get out,” she said softly.

“This is my house...” Gamlen protested thinly.

The door shook as the person outside knocked yet again.

“So help me, if I have to look at you for another moment...”

Gamlen studied her for a moment, before turning and throwing the door open. Varric stood on the stoop, his hand poised for another bout of knocking.

“Well hello, Gamlen,” he oozed. “Is Hawke - ”

“Get out of my way, dwarf,” Gamlen pushed past him without fanfare, nearly sending the visitor careening back into the street.

Varric grasped at the door frame to keep upright, throwing a confused look at the way Gamlen turned. “Sodding duster,” he muttered, stepping into the room, giving the illusion that the now unmuffled sounds of Kirkwall followed in his wake.

He stopped as he saw Hawke, standing rigid in front of him. “Uh, hey Hawke. Leandra. Junior.” Carver bristled at that. “What’s up with sourpuss?” He gestured with a thumb towards the open door.

Mother sat down and buried her face in her hands. Carver, for all of his conflicted feelings moved his chair over to wrap an arm around her shoulder. She leaned into him, though she didn’t cry. He wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not.

“Oh, he was just telling us how he ploughed us out of the family fortune, pissing it away to spite mother,” Nell said with a feigned nonchalance. Fury still tinged her tone, her stance, her shoulders.

Varric picked up on it, even as a woman in the alley outside shouted in apparent ecstasy. “No shit,” the dwarf half said, half asked, as he kicked the door shut behind him.

“You said it,” Nell replied in the sudden dim. “That absolute proper… bastard. I can’t… Want to get out of here, Varric? That shite-kicker might be gone, but it still stinks too much of him.”

In that moment, as Carver felt rather than heard his mother beginning to sob, he realized what he felt. Both for, and about, Gamlen.

He felt… sympathy.

  


  


  


  


  



	19. XVIII: Payment on Delivery

**XVIII: Payment on Delivery**

In the darkened confines of a Lowtown warehouse, Varric yawned. _Too late at night for this shit_ , he thought ruefully as he sat upon the chest that this whole night was about.

“Oh, don’t you start, Varric,” Carver grumbled from the pillar he leaned against. “My sister’s bad enough as it is. Like as not to put me to sleep.”

“It is an unholy hour,” Hawke chimed in, to Varric’s surprise. She’d been quiet all day, stretching long into the night – managing to surpass even Martin’s usual stoic recalcitrance. It was unlike her – she’d been talkative enough when he’d picked her up at Gamlen’s, if deflective when he had tried carefully to steer the conversation back to Gamlen fucking them over.

She’d quieted when Martin had joined their day-drinking at the Hanged Man. By Junior’s later arrival, she was near silent.

Varric was surprised he’d managed to get the go ahead from her for this job, though that was before Martin had shown up. _Whatever’s bothering her, it can’t all be Gamlen. They had to know he lost the fortune before, right? A known house like Amell doesn’t just drop down to Lowtown unless someone colossally shits the bed, and Gamlen’s an obvious bed-shitter._

“Too right,” Carver agreed with his sister, his tone strangely thoughtful. _Even Junior’s acting weird. Since when does he take a second’s thought before he says his piece?_

“ _Well…_ ” Varric said, more to Hawke than to Carver. “Wasn’t much choice for your line of work this week, not in Hightown anyways.”

“’Not much choice,’” Hawke echoed quietly. “So there was choice, then.”

The dwarf leaned into his seat and withdrew Bianca, more to brace himself than to actually fiddle with her in any way. “Well, old Tintop was at it again - “

“Say no more,” Hawke replied. “Wouldn’t touch him with Carver’s sword, let alone shake his bloody hand.”

“Who’s that?” Carver interjected. “What’s so terrible about him?”

“Nothing really,” Varric shrugged. “Bit of an ass, but no worse than the usual. Only trouble is, his idea of a sound financial decision is hiring out to the Qunari.”

Carver’s face twisted into a sneer as he snorted. “Yeah, plough that. Qunari don’t trade with no one.”

“Well, when you put it like that...”

“So’s why we here anyways?” Carver continued, interrupting Varric’s jibe. “I mean, the coins good, right? No qunari neither?”

“Nah,” Varric replied amiably. “Simple product exchange. This chest,” he gestured to the little thing he graced with his behind. “For coin to some.… interested parties. Somewhere in the line of twenty-five sovereigns. The ‘payment on delivery’ to Anso’s original ‘half upfront.’ Pretty good deal, unless this box’s packed full of unrefined lyrium. Wish I could check,” he added as an afterthought. “Apparently Anso didn’t cheap out with this lock.”

“What, you can’t twist a pick?” Carver mocked, some of his usual venom returning to his tone. “You sure talk a lot about how good you are, but now some chest has you stumped? Pfft.”

Varric only grinned at him. “I didn’t say that. _Any_ lock can be broken, it just takes the time and talent. _Technically_ I could get through it, but we don’t have that time part. You following Junior? Too risky, too. Probably rigged up to show tampering to the right eye. Wouldn’t want Anso’s customers to get the idea their stuff’s been messed with.”

Carver shrugged in response, his greatsword tilting on his back. “Sure, I follow. Makes sense, I suppose.” He looked down, as if lost in thought.

_The hell? Ok, now this is bothering me. Didn’t even call me shorty. This night is weirding me out._

They all remained silent for a moment – Hawke shining her spear’s pommel, pulled cross her lap, as she sat on one of the many scattered crates that littered the gloomy warehouse. The few torches she’d lit as they’d come in (with just a single flick of her tinderbox, _lucky woman_ ) cast her in an otherworldly, shadowed glow. Her hands dragged a rag slowly across the carved visage of Andraste adorning her spear, though by her posture her mind was far from her task. Every few moments she idly toed her buckler, a new one bought after that disaster that was Sundermount. Varric shuddered at the memory of that… _what did Martin call it, a shade? Screw that. Seriously sundered her shield though._

He moved on at his own bad pun, refusing to acknowledge the joke even to himself. Carver stood garbed in his usual leather tunic, his greatsword weighing heavily on his back as he relaxed. Usually Carver leaning would seem a casual affectation, a somewhat unnatural presentation of aloofness. Now though… Now his eyes, uncloaked in shadow (unlike Hawke’s) stared defocused at the floor.

Seemingly sensing Varric’s gaze Carver’s eyes darted up. “So, Varric… you said twenty five sovereigns?” He asked slowly.

The now fully present hunger in Carver’s gaze immediately told Varric where _that_ question was going. “Don’t even think about it, Junior. Anso’s _guild_. Get it? You don’t steal from the Merchant’s Guild, and _I_ **really** don’t steal from the Merchant’s Guild. Kinda how being a member works. Besides, even if he wasn’t guild – all the times I’ve dealt with him he’s been straight. It’s bad business to fuck with straight shooters. Few enough of them as it is, and they tend to talk to each other. I got my own… well, Bartrand’s got House Tethras dealings to manage. Even Anso’s word could lose us a lot of profit down the line.”

“’Even?’” Hawke echoed, for now the second time that night. _Not much gets by her,_ the dwarf thought approvingly.

“Yeah, even,” Varric replied. “He’s not a bad guy but… well, he’s a few sisters short of a choir. Way I hear it he pretty regularly moves lyrium. Probably touched the stuff the one time, maybe twice. Now he’s crazy paranoid. You can hardly get through a conversation with the duster without him jumping at least once.”

“So he smuggles lyrium?” Carver asked, eyes narrowing. He threw his glare Hawke’s way as he continued. “That’s about the bloody ploughing opposite of keeping away from Templars, ain’t it?”

Hawke didn’t stop shining her pommel. “If you’re going to be an angry prig, Carver, then shut your gob. You might say something you regret.”

Though Varric understood the sentiment quite well – after all it was only prudent to stay out of the Templar’s way in Kirkwall – the sheer chill in that exchange only further confused him. _Seriously, if this keeps up I’m just going to ask, to hell with it. They’re acting like crazy people._

More to thaw the disagreement than anything else Varric spoke again. “The point’s moot, anyways. I really doubt it’s lyrium. Anso wouldn’t ship that shit unshielded. Too easy for any mage or Templar walking down the street to get a whiff of. Not to mention unshielded lyrium is a recipe for disaster in and of itself.”

Hawke grunted at that, whether in agreement or simple acknowledgment Varric certainly couldn’t tell. She went back to her cleaning, Carver to his considering, and Varric to his own wool gathering.

_Wish I had a good swig of Lowtown fare right about now. Good shit, like dockside maybe. Should get me one of those flasks Mallet carries around._

_Although… then I wouldn’t have the excuse to bum off him._ He smiled fondly at the memory of Martin’s mild irritation, and the sullen soldier’s stoic acceptance of the inevitable. _Always lets me have it, in the end. Worth it to not carry just to_ _see_ _an e_ _xpression_ _out of the guy._

_Although… can’t get a laugh or a drink when he’s passed out at the Hanged Man. Our Mallet might have a problem, there._

“I was wondering, Varric...” Carver suddenly spoke, interrupting the dwarf’s thoughts. “How’s Merrill doing? Did you ask her to come with tonight?”

“Didn’t you just stop by her house this week?” Varric shot back slyly.

“That was two days ago,” Carver answered. “Was just wondering, is all. Would’ve been nice to have her here.”

“Well, I did ask her. She didn’t seem ready, not after last week’s… adventure, let’s say. And yeah, I’m sorry I wasn’t there to help, before you get all angry at me Hawke. Didn’t realize something so simple could go to shit so easily.”

“Not really fair to blame you, Varric.” Hawke replied easily, tone soft. “Just the usual fare for Kirkwall.”

“Yeah,” Varric answered sadly. “I guess so.”

“But,” Hawke slid in, her voice gaining back some of her usual levity. “You never answered Carver’s question. How is our waif Daisy?”

Varric shrugged. “Nervous. Not as bad as last week, but still not eager to step out her door. Probably best for a little bit, maybe coax her out with a night at the Hanged Man before any more jobs.”

“Or maybe a day at the market,” Carver supplied eagerly. “Stop by The Cooker maybe. Food’s mostly shite, but not all of it is.”

“I’m sure you’re right ready to volunteer,” Hawke said good-naturedly. “A night on the town with your new sweetling no doubt... though she’s a bit more bairn than your usual, isn’t she? Practically robbing the cradle.”

“She isn’t a child, _sister_.” Carver bit back, finally his usual angry self. “She knows a lot. About elves and all that. She’s clever. Have you even been around to see her yet?”

Hawke’s response was a weak laugh. “I didn’t want to bombard her. I know you two and Martin have all dropped by.”

“Hawke…” Varric chided, genuinely surprise at her.

“Don’t start, Varric,” Hawke sighed. “Last time I visited she had a nice day of taking jokes for jabs, with a nice bone-powdered veil-torn finale. I doubt she wants to see me right now.”

“Whats this about veil-tears? Bones?” Carver demanded. “What the bloody - ”

“Skip it, brother,” Hawke interrupted, tone leaving no room for debate. “Ask Varric, or Martin maybe. Sometime when I’m not around. I’d rather not even think on it again.”

Varric chuckled nervously after a moments silence. “Well that got serious fast.”

“That’s just what I said,” Hawke muttered.

A sudden pounding at the warehouse’s door nearly toppled Hawke from her seat. Carver had a hand on his sword faster than Varric could blink, while Varric immediately moved a finger to Bianca’s trigger.

Hawke recovered first. “Come right in, door’s open!” She called, pushing herself up with her spear, blade down.

Several men clanked in, seeming to fill the relatively vast room with their bulk. Four men in mail, one in plate of some sort of plum colored metal – _is that sodding nevarrite?_ \- filed in. The plated one directed his fellows in quick, one-word demands, and they set into various positions around the edges of the room. The man in plate stepped forward, his full helm’s face mask looking all the world like a skull frowning down at them.

Varric kept at his seat, Carver had his blade halfway out before Hawke put a hand on his arm.

The man in plate tilted his head, the flickering light throwing the deep purple of the metal all about him. He said nothing for a long moment as he apparently studied their group. His gauntleted hand rested on the hilt of a large sword tied to his hip.

“Greetings,” Hawke began amiably, with no apparent care in the world. “Though I’m all for being prepared, this being Kirkwall and all, you bring quite the arms for a quick business transaction. Wouldn’t you agree?”

The man turned his head back and forth between Carver, Hawke, and Varric, before tilting backwards slightly. “ _IMPERATOR_!” he bellowed, so forcefully that Varric reflexively slid back behind the chest for cover. It took quite a bit of will to follow Hawke’s silent instruction and not bring Bianca to bear on the sudden intruders.

The scraping wood of the door opening sounded again as one final figure entered their little warehouse. This man was smaller than plum-plate, his dark half-plate matching his dark skin as he wafted into the light. He bore an impressive mustache, waxed and treated, set below measuring gray eyes.

The man’s tanned face wrinkled slightly as he grimaced, his perfect mustache tilting sideways.

Purple-plate half bowed at Mustache, throwing up an intricate imperial salute at the man. His harsh voice whispered quietly from within his helm, though this time Varric couldn’t catch the words.

Mustache nodded, his grimace tightening. “ _Gratias tibi, Centurion.”_

At Mustache’s words Varric’s stomach fell. He’d already suspected, but the language he only half-understood confirmed it. _Sodding Tevinters. Shit._ Though the Old Imperials weren’t such an uncommon sight in Kirkwall as compared to many other of their former domains, they were still rare enough to be an uncomfortable oddity.

_Especially with such an obvious fat cat. Shit, shit, shit._

Mustache kept looking about with affected disinterest. “Woman, you are clearly in command here.” His near accentless Trade, though calm and level, practically screamed ‘I’m rich and I’m better than you.’ Varric hated the man immediately. “I do not see our agreed upon merchandise. You will tell me where it is.”

Carver looked about ready to strike, though for her part Hawke kept up appearances as she stood relaxed with her spear tip down – only now her buckler lay proudly strapped to her forearm. _Damn, I didn’t even see her pick it up._ “Well, fancy not seeing what’s locked away in a box. That chest there, as cleverly defended by my stalwart associate Varric. Secured out of sight, from Anso to you.”

The Tevinter did not so much as glance the box’s way before responding, voice unchanged. “Do not think to mock me, Southerner. Where have you stored your cargo? Tell me, immediately. I am not one to be kept waiting.”

“Well _excuse me_ ,” Hawke bit back, this time she evidently couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of her reply. “I wasn’t aware there was such a surefire hurry to all this. By all means, I’ll slap the bitch’s haunches and get a move on. That chest is what pish we were sent to trade and the chest is all we’ve got. Unopened, untampered with. How can you be so sure it’s not what you’re after?”

Mustache’s whole face twisted as he finally met Hawke’s eyes, his disinterest finally corrupted by growing anger. “Do you take me for a fool? An elf of this size would not fit in a box so small were it not sectioned, and were it to be sectioned there would be a reward most foul for you. I will not - ”

“Elf?” Carver barked. “What the bloody hell do you mean by that?”

Plum-plate’s gauntlet moved from resting on to gripping the hilt of his sword as Mustache’s mustache wiggled dangerously. “Do not interrupt me again, dog. I am Altus, Valerius June. I have come to this barbaric southland for Magister Danarius’ property, and have searched far and wide for its return. I was promised its return on this eve, by Dwarven Guild assurance, at _this_ location. You will not extend my exile to this wretched land any longer than must be. Present it to me _at once_ \- ”

Varric’s big mouth opened before he could think to close it. “I mean, elves are usually pretty grumpy people – don’t get me started on the Dalish – but I wouldn’t call really any elf an ‘it.’ Maybe that’s just me.” _You idiot, Varric._

Mustache’s eyes threatened to bug out of his head. “Insolent… _pumilio_!” He whirled back to Hawke, his hand now gracing his own short sword’s hilt. “I will not be spoken to thusly. You will provide what was promised, our your heads I shall take as recompense.”

At ‘heads’ six swords scraped suddenly from their scabbards, chief amongst those Plum-plate’s.

_Shit, shit, shit._

Carver finally had his sword out, held ready in both hands. Varric’s fingers tightened around Bianca possessively as he still crouched behind Anso’s chest. _Little good it’ll do me_ , he realized as he glanced about. At least one of the swordsmen stood behind him half a dozen paces, ready to strike.

Despite it all, Hawke’s spear remained down as her bucklered hand rose to her bosom.

“Oh, by the Maker’s tits,” she breathed throatily as she loosened her leather jacket to reveal a spot of cleavage. “Oh, I do apologize for the misunderstanding, I did not realize you were _Altus Valerius June_!” Her hand traveled back to her chest, clutching her heart with feeling. “You see, we were just - ”

Her words ceased with a grunt as her arm whipped forward and Mustache abruptly collapsed, spluttering, a dagger embedded in his neck. He clutched in vain at his ruined throat, gasping and choking on his own blood.

All hell broke loose as Carver let out a war cry, thrusting at Plum-plate even as Varric tried to take aim on the plated man. Realizing the pointlessness as Plum-plate parried Carver’s blow, and Hawke stepped up to cover her brothers flank – _sodding siblings in my shot_ – Varric swiveled, sliding his back against the chest as he tried to bring Bianca to bear on the swordsman behind.

_Too late_ , the dwarf realized, a crash of shattering wood echoing from behind him. The swordsman was already slashing down, his blade glinting in the sputtering torchlight.

Varric didn’t even have time for a second’s prayer, or to laugh at the joke that was this life he’d lived.

Before the blade could strike a sudden flash of light blinded him. He threw up a hand instinctively to cover his eyes.

It only took a second – a second of bleary eyed blinking to regain spotty vision.

The swordsman was tumbling, tumbling down – blood pouring from a massive blade half-into his side, a blade that swept him to the floor with a crash. Another moment and the blade was extracted, flicking blood and bits Varric’s way as it arced back behind its bearer.

An elf – lean and towering, his blade brandished behind him. Tattoos lined his arms, his face – white tracings and runes that Varric couldn’t begin to even guess at. The elf bared his teeth, then _glowed_.

Another flash, another bleary spout of blinking and Varric rolled over, leveling Bianca over top of Anso’s chest.

Through the haze of light spots Varric saw the elf appear again, swing again – sending one of the two swordsmen who faced off with Hawke down to the floor to join Mustache in death throes. The elf flashed again and was suddenly at the corner of the warehouse, taking one of the swordsmen who had yet to engage either Hawke.

The other swordsman still fighting Hawke cried out in terror, dodging back partially through his own swing. “ _Umbra_!” He shouted.

_Stupid last words,_ Varric thought, as he took the opportunity to hit the panicking man with three bolts from Bianca. The feel of her kick against his shoulder was nearly as satisfying as the abrupt folding of the man as he too fell to the ground.

A mangled cry signaled the elf’s victory over the final mailed swordsman, leaving only Plum-plate left standing of the ‘Vints. He attempted a stab at the younger Hawke that Carver brutally hammered aside with a cross swing.

With Plum-plate’s blade preoccupied Hawke took the opportunity to bodily slam the armored man to the floor, bashing his sword arm with her buckler on the way down.

Plum, clearly not overly put out by his impact with the floor tried to headbutt Hawke. His helmet met only air – she was already rolling off, already evading as Carver raised his sword for a lethal downward stab.

“Hold,” a voice spoke, raw and hoarse. “Do not kill him.”

The elf stepped forward from the twitching remains of his final opponent, his massive sword glinting as he raised it to a sheath on his back. In the light (and relative peace that suddenly existed) Varric finally had the opportunity to appreciate just how weird their reinforcement was.

The elf was dressed in an open-collared half-plate ensemble, its gray metal a faded sheen of undamaged splendor. He wore heavy gauntlets of the same quality – though in the flickering light they showed at least some signs of nicks and blemishes. Aside from the gauntlets and half-plate he may as well have been unarmored – he wore some sort of leather trousers, with open toed boots. _Shit, he’s got sodding feathers on his shoulders._ His angled face was set in a grimace, tattoos that traced from his mouth down his neck pulsing with that damnable glow.

Ever the follower, Carver stopped and looked up at the elf with his blade still poised to strike. “Who the bloody hell are you? What do you want with this lot?”

The elf grimaced, stepping forward with hardly a glance at the man. “In a moment.” His voice, now calmer and smoother, bit with the intensity of steel.

Plum-plate’s hand raised above his chest as if he could catch Carver’s sword before it could come down. “Do you not know what you have done?” He stammered, voice muffled by his helmet. “Do you not realize - ”

In only half a heart-beat the elf was suddenly on him, straddling the man’s chest with a gauntleted fist pressed to his plate.

The elf’s tone showed a trace of a gloat in through his determination. “They do not. But I, I know with a _certainty.”_

The low pulsing from the elf’s tattoos suddenly lit the room yet again, forcing another pained blink from Varric, but he kept his eyes glued to the strange scene before him – he absolutely had to see what this elf was.

Intricate patterns of light shone forth from the elf – down his arms, his sides, his legs – twisting and shining both from exposed flesh and armored body. As a rising flame the tattoos burned brighter even as the elf brought his arm back to strike at the man’s plate.

_What’s he going to do, punch him?_ Varric thought as he barely suppressed a near giddy laugh. _Punch right through plate?_

The arm went down, shining all the while, to disappear with a whisper into the man’s chest, through the plate.

At Plum-plate’s scream Carver took a step back. Hawke, just rising to her feet stood slackjawed and loose.

Varric’s fingers twitched at the thought of Martin’s flask. _Shit_.


	20. XIX: Moments

**XIX: Moments**

It was a moment he had long awaited. Not just in that day, not just observing an empty Kirkwall warehouse from a rooftop vantage point. He had tensed at the arrival of three shadowed figures – one stocky-short, clearly a dwarf. _The men Anso promised, no doubt,_ he had thought at the time.

The beat of blood sounded in his ears as his quarry had arrived, the hunters that had become the hunted - but he had schooled his heart into calm. _Patience,_ he thought _. It has been this long on the run. I can wait… a bit longer._

Though it seemed to take the blink of an eye, it had probably taken several minutes for him to scale down the rotted wood of his decrepit perch, to steal as quietly as he could to the warehouse now shut.

Only a moment further for the sounds of combat, of steel and shouts to echo from within. But a moment to throw open the door, to leap into the fray. For his sword to meet flesh, to feel the singing surge of lyrium burned into his flesh as he darted from target to target.

He had hardly been aware then, his only conscious action was his first – sighting his unfamiliar allies facing off against his familiar foes – a quick count of the hunters. The dwarf, crouched; a sword raised to strike.

Instinct carried him then, brought him in a step of lyrium bright to rescue the dwarf. One slash and a hunter was down – then to the woman’s defence. One thought broke through the haze of battle at that. _A woman?_

Another swing, another kill. Step, flash, kill. It again felt only a moment, a moment of joyous battle and righteous vengeance, until the last of the hunters had fallen save the Second.

His unknown allies, Anso’s agents had already taken him to the ground – were at the cusp of killing him. Another moment, a request. Then the moment of triumph, his hand grasping the Second’s heart.

Though Fenris could not see the man’s eyes he knew the terror that now ran through them. The pain that now wracked his form as Fenris squeezed on his black heart. _After all,_ he thought bemusedly in a sudden moment of clarity. _That is the place of a slave._

Anger at that thought brought him back to his battle fugue, back to purpose. The Second shuddered beneath him, his plate clanking, his voice wailing. “You will tell me where I was to be taken, where you were to meet your master,” Fenris hissed at him, his face near touching the man’s helmet.

“I cannot!” The Second cried as he struggled uselessly, screaming as his torso shifted his heart into Fenris’ gauntlet. It was a close thing – the man almost killed himself right there. “I CANNOT! I CANNOT! **UMBRA,** MERCY - ”

“There is no mercy here.” Fenris barked, sweat beading down his forehead as he struggled to hold yet not crush the man’s heart. He could feel the heat of the man’s blood, pump of his heart – the burning of lyrium in his own flesh. “You have chosen your path, chosen to hunt – now _I_ hunt.” Fenris bared his teeth and used his free hand to force the mask to face him fully. “You have but one choice left – how long I take to crush your heart.”

He punctuated his words with a tight squeeze, dragging forth another scream from the Second. “The manor! The manor!” the man wretched.

“Where?” Fenris demanded, dragging one finger.

Another scream, a gasping horrid thing.

Someone spoke behind him, a gasp of some sort. He ignored them.

“ **Where**?” he demanded one last time, his hand clenching.

“ _ **SERPICAR! SERPICAR! SERPICAR**_!”

Fenris clenched and the screaming stopped as if commanded. He held for a moment as the corpse twitched beneath him, waited until it stilled. Then he withdrew his blood soaked arm from the unmarred plate, pushed himself to his feet. Flicked as much as he could off his gauntlet and on to the floor.

It had taken only a moment.

_A manor._ _**Serpicar -** _ _a tevinter name. It means nothing to me, but perhaps Anso…_

He snapped back to the world around him as he heard another phrase from behind.

“What in the makers piss-soaked sheets did just bloody -”

He turned at those words to see his three allies shrink back at his movement. The human man, tall and lightly armored, had an incredulous look on his thick face. His sword, comparable to Fenris’ own was tipped towards the ground. _Ready to raise if needed._

The dwarf stood to the far right, his strange crossbow tilted to the floor, his jaw hung agape.

In between the two the woman stood, her short spear down but not touching the ground. Her ice-blue eyes flashed in the flickering light, her skin pale – _what matter is her skin?_ \- as she continued cursing up a storm. “- void take me, every ploughing job is a right shit shake, every single time – ” She stopped at Fenris’ regard, her lip twisting into a manic grin as she threw her free arm in the air. “What in the hells is going on? Who are you?”

Fenris stepped back, placed his blade upon his back – _I can always clean it later_ – then held his hands up, in a sign of peace. It would not do to antagonize Anso’s men – _and woman, apparently_. He grimaced at the blood still slick on his proffered gauntlet as he took note of what she had asked.

“I apologize for any confusion,” he started.

“Confusion!” She barked as the man beside her snorted in apparent amusement. “ _Confusion!_ I thought this Anso was a straight shooter, Varric, you said – _you promised_ – “

The dwarf stuttered in reply, half turning to face the woman, half looking at Fenris nervously. “Look Hawke, I’m sorry. How many times do I gotta say I’m sorry, I mean, I didn’t plan… I’ve never heard of Anso dealing in slaves, that’s for damn sure!”

Though he remained calm Fenris felt a flicker of anger at that. “Anso deals not in slaves, or he has not with me. Just the opposite.” _The dwarf had said the mercenaries would know as little as possible, but did he tell them nothing?_ “What did Anso tell you?”

“Product exchange!” The woman cried, thumping her spear on the ground. “That - ” she gesticulated madly at the small chest the dwarf had used as a roosting place during the battle. “For bloody coin! No elves! No sections! Not sectioned! I mean - ”

She stopped, her mouth hanging open comically for a moment as she considered. “You look rather well,” Her eyes flashed as they looked him up and down. Fenris felt his hackles raise – he felt hunted then, suddenly – but not as he had from the Hunters. “For a sectioned fellow. I take it you were the one these chums were after.” Her tone calmed significantly at that, assumed an affable humor.

Fenris swallowed the sudden lump in his throat and inclined his head. “Yes. I do not know what Anso has told you, but I am Fenris. The slave… that these men were hunting.”

The man snorted again, still apparently amused. “Right. Nice. What’s this got to do with some Guild dwarf? Why are you lot crashing our job?”

“Simple, brother mine,” the woman smiled as she spoke, her eyes still locked to Fenris’. “Anso lied. Bamboozled us, as it were, into fighting on behalf of Fenris here. What for, I have no idea. Varric?” She threw a glance the dwarf’s way. “I’m suddenly not feeling quite so respectful of your friend’s property.”

“He’s not my friend,” groused the dwarf. “Just a ‘friend.’ But yeah, I’m full to shit with curiosity too.” He mounted his crossbow on his back and turned, kneeling at the chest.

“I doubt there is even anything within,” Fenris mused aloud. “I had thought Anso would tell as little as possible, but I did not thing he would out and lie. I apologize, I did not intend to deceive you.”

“Just asked for help killing your tevinter friends, more like?” the woman asked, half a laugh leaving her lips.“What could possibly tempt a Guild dwarf to hire out sellswords for a runaway slave? You pay him?”

Fenris shook his head. “No. I… he was recommended. I asked, and he arranged this ambush. I must confess, I did not entirely believe that he would. In my travels I have met few who have sought anything more than personal gain.”

The dwarf, Varric, suddenly snorted. Fenris glanced his way to see him kneeling over the now opened chest. “Nothing. Sodding duster.”

“Straight shooter, my arse,” grumbled the man.

The woman cursed again. “Well piss on it all, he’d better not be lying about our pay. If that’s all?” She shot him a smile. “Good to know you, Fenris, but I’ve just about had enough for one night - ”

“Please, a moment,” Fenris heard himself say. “You heard what the Second said…. my master awaits my delivery at a manor, ‘Serpicar.’ I am unfamiliar with this city, would you know what - ”

Of all people it was the dwarf who interrupted him. “It’s a square up in Hightown, off of Red Lantern. Probably the dingiest , shadiest spot in the whole damned district.” He tapped his jaw with a finger, considering. “From what I remember there’s an old estate there. Didn’t know anybody lived in it. Guard’s are usually good at keeping away squatters.”

“Unless your master has some pull with the guard, or even owns the house,” the woman chimed in. “If that’s all, I’d like to get as far away from these cooling corpses as can be – maybe shake down Anso for our pay. After a refresh at the Hanged Man. Now - ”

Without thinking, as if compelled Fenris cut in. “I am hesitant to request this, after Anso’s deception, but… I cannot face my master alone. I will need your help.”

The woman laughed at that, a tinkling, wry sound. “I very much doubt that. You’re a right terror with that… I suppose those tattoos of yours. Lyrium, Right? Nothing else glows like that. Don’t know why you even asked Anso for help, these here were just chickens to your axe as it were.”

Fenris gestured with a hand to the Altus, the corpse’s hands clutched in a death grip around the dagger that had so ruined his throat. “That man was Altus Valerius June-

“So he said, the ponce.”

“It was fortunate for us all that you killed him first, and by surprise. His magic-” the rage that had cooled within him flared up at the thought of it, and he spat on Valerius’ corpse. “Would have made this fight all the more difficult.”

“Magic? He was a mage?” the woman asked, paling.

“He was an Altus.”

All three looked at him blankly.

“It does not matter,” he said with a sigh. “To be an Altus, one must be a mage.”

“I thought tevinter mages were Magisters,” the man said.

“No,” corrected Fenris. “That is not the case. Magisters…” he shook his head. “This is unimportant. What matters is that my master is here. I must confront him – but I cannot go alone.” He met the woman’s sheer blue eyes, stood up straight under her scrutiny. “I do not know what else I can offer aside from what Anso has already promised you. I simply… I humbly request your help.”

“Sod that,” the brother sneered. “We work for pay only.”

Fenris frowned, considering. “My master is wealthy. Undoubtedly there will be spoils of various nature. If it helps, you may have all of it. I have little need of possessions.”

The brother’s face smoothed out into a contemplative look.

Fenris ignored him, kept his eyes locked to the woman. She looked at him a long moment, her eyes searching. Her face softened, all trace of snideness and frustration gone. “Alright. But if we are to help you - ” Fenris tensed in anticipation of what she might ask. “We can hardly do it as strangers.”

The woman bowed theatrically, sweeping her short spear as if it was a showman’s staff. “My name is Hawke, for my ‘da, and the square-jaw to my left is my dear brother Carver. Our marvelous dwarven specimen is Varric, of House Tethras.”

Varric grinned, his earlier nervousness apparently forgotten. _Or concealed_. “Professional story-teller and younger brother. You almost had it there.”

“About your offer of spoils,” Hawke continued. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not necessary.”

“You can’t be bloody serious,” Carver complained. “We can’t just break into a Hightown mansion, with Magisters and Atlases about without pay. Ploughing causes sister, they do nothing but plough _us_ proper.”

“Carver, not in front of the… client,” Hawke said, her smile taking on a forced expression as she refused to look at her brother. “If you are _so disinclined_ to help, you can always go home and cheese off with Gamlen for company.”

“Cheese - ” Carver spluttered, looking back and forth between Hawke and Fenris. His already plain frown twisted into a cruel smirk. “Oh, I see how it is. Now it’s not just fereldans, is it? Can’t just keep - ”

“Another word, _dearest brother_ ,” Hawke grinned dangerously, her voice dropping all hints of affability. “And you’re visits to the Rose shall take a singularly one-sided turn.”

Her brother opened his mouth as if to speak and promptly closed it again. “Fine. Be that way. Throw us into the fire for hardly a copper. See if I care.”

“Andraste’s sake you baby, put a cork in it. Are you with or not?”

Carver muttered something, a final grunt. “With. You’re not leaving me behind.”

Hawke smiled brightly, cheery once again. “Then it’s settled. Varric, shall we take the Broken Bridge?”

Varric nodded. “Usually not the smartest route for a nighttime stroll but shit, we’re not the usual, now are we? Just stay low and quiet, follow me – and if anyone stops us, let me do the talking.”

“Stay low he says,” grumbled Carver, as he pushed past Fenris. “Let’s just get this over and done with. One way or another.”

Fenris inclined his head to Varric, gestured the dwarf to take the lead. He fell into step beside Hawke, aware that he should thank her. Offer whatever he could as recompense.

“I...” he began. “Your brother was right on one thing, you do not owe me any obligation. After… after this matter is done, I will find some manner to return the favor. I swear it.”

She shot him a sideways glance. “Let’s just get this done then, shall we? Chickens and hatching, and all that. Although…” She smirked knowingly at him with look in her eyes that Fenris could not place. “Buy me – buy us a round, afterwards. More than enough.”

He nodded, resolved. _Long have I awaited,_ he thought he passed through the door into the foul night air of Kirkwall’s docks. _Only moments away._


End file.
